^ ^/ (^^i-*^.-"^'!^ 






' a"^ :x '^. 



4 " 




jlO^^ - V I' V L .". , 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. Copyright No. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/songsofwarpeaceOOfoss 



^- 



-^ 



BOOKS BY SAM WALTER FOSS. 



Back Country Poems, 

With 12 Full-page Illustrations. Cloth 

Whiffs from Wild Meadows. 

Fully Illustrated. Cloth. Gilt Top. Boxed 

Dreams in Homespun. 

Cloth. Gilt Top. Boxed _ - - 



$1.50 



1.50 



LEE AND SHEPARD, Publishers, 

BOSTON. 



-^ 



Songs OF War and Peace 



BY / 

SAM WALTER FOSS 

AUTHOR OF "back COUNTRY POEMS," " WHIFFS FROM WILD MEADOWS," 

" DREAMS IN HOMESPUN," ETC. y 



BOSTON 
LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS 

lO MILK STREET 
1899 



\ 



Most of the pieces in this book are used through the 
courtesy of The Neiv York Sim, the McClure Syndicate, 
The Independent, Leslie's IVeekly, Puck, Judge, The 
Golden Rule, the New England Magazine, and The 
Arena, 



*W v.Jr y.,^ ;. ?-, 



Copyright, 1898, by Lee and Shepard 



All rights reserved 



Songs op War and Peace 







iOpi 



u^ b'^ 



typography by c. ]. peters & son, boston. 

PRESSWORK by BERWICK & SMITH. 



Mu SEtfe 



IF/io ivill rorife tlie best song, who will paint the best pietiire. 

Whose music is best? 
He who uiidersta}ids man, knows the heart of him, loves him 

Above all the rest. 

Put stars in yoitr song and put skies in your picture. 

Put mountains and seas ; 
But one heart-throb that'' s tuned to the heart of a brother 

Is greater than these. 

Man first in your song; man first, and then mountains. 

And the woods and the seas ; 
And knoiv, 'while yott picture the star groups of midnight. 

He is greater than these. 

What is art, what is art and the artisPs achievement. 

Its purpose a7id plan ? 
' Tis the message that's sent from the heart of the artist 

To the heart of a man. 



CONTENTS 













PAGE 


War / • ^ 


The Dialogue of the Spirits . 












4 


Sam Pasco and Napoleon 












7 


The World-Smiths 












9 


The Shadigandian Reformer 












12 


Our Little Back Star 












15 


Pioneering 












i8 


Swipesey, The Missionary 












21 


The Coming Captains . 












23 


The Wide-Swung Gates 












25 


The Song of the Cannon 












29 


A Recipe for Success 












31 


The Song of a River 












34 


A Brook and a Life 












38 


The Brook and the Boy . 




. 








41 


Farragut to Dewey 












43 


Two Brides . 












44 


Survivals 












46 



VI 



Contents 











PAGE 


The Awakening of Uncle Sam . . . . .50 


Peter, the Orthodox 








S3 


The Wordless Voice 








55 


The Yeast of Evolution 








58 


The Pulling-Through of Todlum . 








61 


The Dome of Pictures . 








65 


When He has an Idea in His Head 








67 


Uncanonized Saints 








69 


The Higher Carelessness 








72 


Jupiter Pluvius, Jr. ... 








77 


Mother Asia 








80 


Grassvale's Great Man . 








82 


My Properties .... 








85 


Uncle Sam's Spring Cleaning 








87 


The Only Man in the World . 








. 89 


The Ruse of John P. Jock 








. 90 


The Friendly, Flowing Savage 








. 92 


The Pageant ..... 








• 95 


The Tree Lover .... 








. 97 


When Peter sang .... 








. 99 


A Thinker on Thinkers . 








. 102 


The Song of the Hoe 








. 105 


Tom Phelan's Haunted Barn . 








. 108 


An Art Critic .... 








. 112 


The Song of Dewey's Guns . 








• "5 



Contents 



The Infidel .... 

Listen to Yourself 

The Classics 

The Twins .... 

The Warming of the Hands . 

The Pedigree of the Dollars . 

On the Door-knob 

An Inspector 

The Man Who Understood Man 

A Thought .... 

1898 and 1562 

A Contrast .... 

The Blossoming of Igdrasil 

The Voices of the Tides 



Vll 

PAGE 

"7 
119 
121 
123 
128 
131 
133 
135 
138 
141 
142 
144 

145 
146 



SONGS OF WAR AND PEACE 



IVA/i 



I AM War. The upturned eyeballs of piled dead 
men greet my eye, 

And the sons of mothers perish — and I laugh to 
see them die — 

Mine the demon lust for torture, mine the devil lust 
for pain, 

And there is to me no beauty like the pale brows of 
the slain! 

But my voice calls forth the godlike from the slug- 
gish souls at ease, 

And the hands that toyed with ledgers scatter thun- 
ders round the seas; 

And the lolling idler, wakening, measures up to 
God's own plan, 

And the puling trifler greatens to the stature of a 
man. 

I 



2 Songs of War and Peace 

When I speak the centuried towers of old cities melt 
in smoke, 

And the fortressed ports sink reeling at my far- 
aimed thunder stroke; 

And an immemorial empire flings its last flag to the 
breeze, 

Sinking with its splintered navies down in the un- 
pitying seas. 

But the blind of sight awaken to an unimagined day. 

And the mean of soul grow conscious there is great- 
ness in their clay; 

Where my bugle voice goes pealing slaves grow he- 
roes at its breath. 

And the trembling coward rushes to the welcome 
arms of death. 

Pagan, heathen, and inhuman, devilish as the heart 
of hell, 

Wild as chaos, strong for ruin, clothed in hate un- 
speakable — 

So they call me — and I care not — still I work my 
waste afar, 

Heeding not your weeping mothers and your widows 
— I am War ! 

But your soft-boned men grow heroes when my flam- 
ing eyes they see, 

And I teach your little peoples how supremely great 
they be; 



IVar 3 

Yea, I tell them of the wideness of the soul's un- 
folded plan, 

And the godlike stuff that's moulded in the making 
of a man. 

Ah, the godlike stuff that's moulded in the making 

of a man ! 
It has stood my iron testing since this strong old 

world began. 
Tell me not that men are weaklings, halting trem- 
blers, pale and slow — 
There is stuff to shame the seraphs in the race of 

men — / know. 
I have tested them by fire, and I know that man is 

great, 
And the soul of man is stronger than is either death 

or fate ; 
And where'er my bugle calls them, under any sun 

or star. 
They will leap with smiling faces to the fire test of 

war. 



Songs of War and Peace 



THE DIALOGUE OF THE SPIRITS 



Says the Spirit of To-day to the Spirit of All Time, 

"Have you seen my big machines? 
My fire steeds, thunder-shuttlecocks that dart from 

clime to clime, 
Hear the lyrics of their driving rods, the modern 

chant sublime — " 
Says the Spirit of To-day to the Spirit of All Time, 
" Have you seen my big machines? " 

"Hear the thunder of my mills," says the Spirit of 

To-day, 
" Hear my harnessed rivers pant. 
Men are jockeys with the lightnings, and they drive 

them where they may, 
They are bridlers of the cataracts that dare not say 

them nay, 
And the rivers are their drudges," says the Spirit of 

To-day. 
" Hear my harnessed rivers pant." 

Says the Spirit of All Time to the Spirit of To-day, 
" Haste and let your work go on. 



The Dialogue of the Spirits 5 

Tap the fires of the underworld to bake your bread, 
I say; 

Belt the tides to sew your garments, hitch the suns 
to draw your sleigh." 

Says the Spirit of All Time to the Spirit of To- 
day, 
" Haste and let your work go on." 

" But," says the Spirit of All Time to the Spirit of 
To-day, 
" Tell us, how about your men? 

Shall they, like live automatons, still drudge their 
lives away. 

When the rivers, tides, and lightnings join to help 
them on their way ? " 

Says the Spirit of All Time to the Spirit of To- 
day, 
" Tell us, how about your men ? 

" Yes, harness every river above the cataract's brink, 

And then unharness man. 
To earth's reservoirs of fire let your giant shaftings 

sink, 
And scourge your drudging thunderbolts — but give 

man time to think; 
Throw your bridles on the rivers, curb them at the 
cataract's brink — 
And then unharness man." 



6 Songs of War and Peace 

Says the Spirit of All Time: " In this climax of the 
years 
Make no machine of man. 

Your harnessed rivers panting are as lyrics in my 
ears, 

And your jockeyed lightnings clattering are as mu- 
sic of the spheres, 

But 'tis well that you remember, in this climax of 
the years : 
Make no machine of man." 



Sam Pasco and Napoleon 



SAAf PASCO AND NAPOLEON 



Napoleon took Europe and tossed down toppling 
thrones, 

And strewed its ghastly hillsides with white and 
bleaching bones ; 

And dandled kings like puppets and made his world- 
uproar, 

And played his battailous music, passed, and was 
heard no more. 

Sam Pasco took a run-down farm, a run-down farm, 

alas ! 
Where stretched unbroken solitudes between each 

spear of grass. 
And moss usurped its hillsides and flags usurped 

its meads, 
And both its hills and meadows were a tragedy of 

weeds. 

Sam Pasco's hard campaigning ! Long waged the 

stubborn fray ; 
And Sam grew bowed and battered, and Sam grew 

seamed and gray ; 



8 Songs of War and Peace 

But those bald hills grew green with grass, and ap- 
ple-blossoms fair 

Stormed, as with storms of winter, the fragrant 
summer air. 

Napoleon took Europe and played his mighty game, 
And sowed its fields with corpses and wrapped its 

towns in flame. 
Sam Pasco took his run-down farm and greened 

its moss-gray soil, 
And one small plat of this wide earth was fairer 

through his toil. 

Sam Pasco and Napoleon ! Wide are the midnight 

skies, 
And in the wideness of the worlds men seem of 

equal size ; 
And from some star may each look down, each 

stretch his phantom arm, 
Napoleon tow'rd Austerlitz, Sam Pasco tow'rd his 

farm. 



The World -Smiths 



THE WORLD-SMITHS 



What is this iron music 

Whose strains are borne afar? 
The hammers of the world-smiths 

Are beating out a star. 
They build our old world over, 

Anew its mould is wrought, 
They shape the plastic planet 

To models of their thought. 
This is the iron music 

Whose strains are borne afar; 
The hammers of the world-smiths 

Are beating out a star. 

We hear the whirling sawmill 

Within the forest deep; 
The wilderness is clipped like wool. 

The hills are sheared like sheep. 
Down through the fetid fenways 

We hear the road machine; 
The tangled swamps are tonsured, 

The marshes combed and clean. 



lo Songs of War and Peace 

We see the sprouting cities 
Loom o'er the prairie's rim, 

And through the inland hilltops 
The ocean navies swim. 

Across the trellised land-ways 

The lifted steamers slide; 
Dry shod beneath the rivers 

The iron stallions glide; 
Beneath the tunnelled city 

The lightning chariots flock, 
And back and forth their freight of men 

Shoot like a shuttlecock. 
The moon-led tides are driven back, 

Their waves no more are free, 
And islands rise from out the main 

And cities from the sea. 

We see the mountain river 

From out its channel torn 
And wedded to the desert 

That Plenty may be born ; 
We see the iron roadway 

Replace the teamer's rut; 
We see the painted village 

Grow round the woodman's hut. 
Beneath the bafifled oceans 

The lightning couriers flee; 



fbe IVoiid'Smitbs n 

Across the sundering isthmuses 
Is mingled sea with sea. 

Smiths of the star unfinished, 

This is the work for you, 
To hammer down the uneven world — 

And there is much to do. 
Scoop down that beetling mountain. 

And raze that bulging cape ; 
The world is on your anvil, 

Now smite it into shape. 
What is this iron music. 

Whose strains are borne afar? 
The hammers of the world-smiths 

Are beating; out a star. 



12 Songs of War and Peace 



THE SHADIGANDIAN REFORMER 



I'm a moral regulator, and I feel it is my mission 
To keep my fellow-citizens from travelling to perdi- 
tion ; 
I feel my mission in my bones, I'm made to regulate 
The morals of my fellow-men and keep my neigh- 
bors straight. 

I hunt for sin on every trail, through wood and 

swamp and mire, 
And when I drive it from its lair I lift my gun and 

fire ; 
I hunt the sin through hidden ways, through many 

a covert path, 
And pulverize the sinner with the thunder of my 

wrath. 

Born was I in a sinful age, a sinful neighborhood ; 

My fellow-townsmen all were bad, and not a soul 

was good. 

So, in this town of Shadigand, when I was young 
and strong, 

I told the Shadigandians that they were foul with 

wrong". 



The Shadigandian Reformer 13 

My neighbors' sins filled me witli grief almost beyond 

control. 
The weight of Shadigandian sin was heavy on my 

soul. 
" I '11 make this place as virtuous as any in the land, 
I'll make," said I, " a virtuous town this town of 

Shadigand. 

"The time will come," I said, " twill come when sin 

will disappear. 
When in this town will not be found a single sinner 

here." 
And I have done the thing I said — a work of some 

renown — 
For now, to-day, there is not left one sinner in the 

town. 

I'd meet men on the highways and I'd show them 

they were bad, 
And give them all a catalogue of all the sins they had ; 
I'd greet them in the fields at work and look them 

in the eye, 
And cry aloud and spare them not and smite them 

hip and thigh. 

I'd follow them to market, and I'd follow them to 

mill. 
And show their gross perversities of thought and 

deed and will ; 



14 Songs of War and Peace 

And then I'd seek them in their homes, and preach 

for days and days, 
And show to them the fearful wrong and error of 

their ways. 

And I convicted them of sin ; they all began to go ; 
Yes, they all trickled out of town in one continuous 

flow ; 
And my own wife and family departed with the rest. 
And left this town of Shadigand an unpolluted nest. 

And so my prophecy came true that sin would dis- 
appear — 

There's not one sinner left in town — I'm all the 
soul that's here. 

But you, sir, you're a sinful man — foul sin your 
soul has hid — 

What's that ? You're going to leave the town ? 
Just what the others did. 



Our Little Back Star 1 5 



OUR LITTLE BACK STAR 



Oh, we do fairly well on this little back star, 

This world in the suburbs of space, 
Though we're out here alone, and we hardly know 
how 

To get our belongings in place. 
We've no other models to which to conform, 

We've no other star for a plan, 
And we think for a young and a little back star. 

We have done nigh as well as we can. 
And so we abide here with things as they are 
In our cosmical suburb, our little back star. 

'Tis mostly unfinished, our little back star, 

(Takes time for a world to get made). 
And the building of worlds is involved in delay 

Not known to the carpenter's trade, 
" 'Tis not the best possible star ? " No, not yet ; 

Takes time to build worlds, I repeat. 
And the long, long design of its architect's plan 

Is a few billion years from complete. 
And we hardly can guess what the finished worlds are 
In the unfinished state of our little back star. 



1 6 Songs of War and Peace 

There are noisy complaints of our little back star, 

There are voices upraised that are loud ; 
And there's much that is said that is nigh to the 
truth 

By the lips of the querulous crowd. 
There is much that is lacking in justice and truth, 

There is more that is lacking in grace ; 
So our little back star with its querulous freight 

Whirls on through the suburbs of space. 
And the great frontward stars from their stations 

afar, 
In silence look down on our little back star. 

Oh, the great frontward stars may be eons ahead 

Of our little back star in the race, 
But the simple, sole thing for a star and a man, 

Is to look their own fate in the face. 
There's a long race ahead for our little back star, 

And failures and flouts not a few, 
But perhaps in a score of a thousand of years 

We may grow up a Shakespeare or two. 
We are bound on a journey that stretches afar, 
There's a long course ahead for our little back star. 

Our little back star rolled on with its freight, 
In the crude early years of its prime. 

With wallowing monsters that sprawled in the sun, 
And dragons that weltered in slime. 



Our Little Back Star ^7 

Let the voices upraised that are loud in complaint 

Still swell from the querulous crew ; 
But our little back star travels on knowing well 

What a few million ages can do. 
So some in wise silence are gazing afar 
Down the long distant path of our little back star. 



Songs of IVar and Peace 



PIONEERING 



Songs for the tameless tamers, 

The tamers of the seas ; 
Songs for the stout old sailors 

Who harnessed every breeze, 
Who through the seas of darkness 

By unknown winds were whirled; 
Proud Drake and stout Magellan, 

The girdlers of the world. 

And songs for Henry Hudson, 

Wherever he may be, 
Whose bones have bleached three hundred 
years 

Beneath his northern sea. 
Songs for the grim old sailors, 

Men of heroic pith, 
Yea, songs for old John Cabot, 

And songs for brave John Smith. 

Songs for La Salle, the dauntless, 
And songs for strong Champlain; 



Pioneering 19 

For good Marquette and Joliet, 
For Crockett, Boone, and Kane. 

Songs for the pioneer vanguard, 
Who ploughed uncharted floods, 

And laid the sites of cities 
Within the roadless woods. 



II 

Songs for all pioneering, 

And all are pioneers: 
All sailors from an anchorage 

That fronts the tide of years. 
And each man sails an ocean 

No other sailed before. 
And each man findeth for himself 

An undiscovered shore. 

Sail on across the morning, 

Sail forth beyond the night. 
Sail forth and trust the eternal winds 

To blow your bark aright; 
And every day shall greet you. 

New phase of wave or breeze. 
The moonlight on new headlands, 

The sunlight on new seas. 

Still sail the tameless tamers, 
The tamers of the seas ; 



20 Songs of War and Peace 

Still sail the stout old sailors 
Who harness every breeze; 

Still through the seas of darkness 
By unknown winds are whirled 

Proud Drakes and stout Magellans, 
The girdlers of the world. 



Swipesey, the Missionary 21 



SWIPESEY, THE MISSIONARY 



Chris'mus is comin'! Let 'er come! 

I've jined the Mission Band 
What sends out clo'es an' grub an' things 

To ev'ry heathen land. 
I loves them little heathen kids 

So sunk in sin an' wrong, 
An' I have jined the Mission Band 

To help them kids along. 
Ya-as, I have jined the Mission Band, 

It's jest the thing for me, — 
For all who jine, nex' Chris'mus time. 

Will git a present. See ? 

Them heathen kids is low-down mugs. 

They lies an' swears an' fights. 
An' crawls into a hole, like bears. 

To go to bed at nights. 
I wants to help them kids along. 

To better livin' win 'em. 
An' I'm perpared to smash the bloke 

That says a thing ag'in 'em. 
I love them heathen kids, I does, 

I've jined the Mission Band, 



22 Sofigs of War and Peace 

' An' I will git a present. Gee! 

Nex' Chris'mus. Understand? 

Them heathen kids is wickud things, 

An' growin' wuss an' wuss. 
I wants to make 'em noble. See? 

An' sweet an' good, like us. 
I wants to make the gang bang-up, 

Jest like us kids is here, 
An' elervate the hull blame crowd 

'Way up to our idear; 
An' so I've jined the Mission Band, 

Me an' me brudder John, 
We'll git a present Chris'mus time — 

You tumble? Are ye on? 

I loves them little heathen kids. 

An' though they're mighty tough, 
We're goin' to elervate the scamps, 

An' this 'ere ain't no bluff. 
We means to make them heathen kids 

As good as Buck Magee, 
As Swipesey Dugan, Slugger Sam, 

Or Guff Malone or me. 
An' so we've jined the Mission Band, 

Me an' me brudder John, 
We'll git a present, Chris'mus time — 

You tumble? Are ye on? 



The Coming Captains 23 



THE COMING CAPTAINS 



There are many children dressed in bibs, 
Tliere are many sleeping in their cribs, 
There are many playing with their toys. 
There are many girls and many boys : 
They're coming ! Though the world is wide. 
Make room ! They're coming ! Stand aside ! 

Is there a wrong that needs a blow 

From sturdy arms to lay it low? 

Are there, albeit the world is old, 

Unconquered evils manifold? 

Has wrong some fortress wall unsealed ? 

Some bastioned tower unassailed? 

Some vaunting champion undefied ? 

Stand back! They're coming! Stand aside! 

And are there dragons still unslain, 
The wallowing monsters of disdain. 
Who mock the voices of our time 
With reptile hisses from their slime? 
And do the hearts of strong men fall 
When they behold their serpent trail? 



24 Songs of War and Peace 

The boys and girls are coming. Stay! 
The dragons they have had their day. 

Are there old phantoms of old fears 
That haunt the pathway of the years? 
Old doubts that make the sunshine cold 
And make the hearts of men grow old? 
Fall back! ye spectres, in tiie night, 
Our face is forward toward the light. 
The boys and girls are coming! Hide! 
Stand back! They're coming! Stand aside! 

The old commanders have grown gray, 
The famous Captains pass away, 
The grim old Generals are slain — 
Now who shall plan the new campaign? 
There are many children dressed in bibs. 
There are many sleeping in their cribs — 
Come forward! Our old chiefs are gone I 
Come from your cradles — lead us on ! 

The army murmurs at delay; 
Come, lead us. Captains. We obey. 
Hark, hear the loud foes' battle-drum. 
Ye captains from the cradle, come! 
The hosts meet. Let the war begin I 
We love you — trust you — you will win. 
Haul down, ye foes, your flag of pride! 
Fall back ! They're coming! Stand aside! 



The Wide-Switiio- Gates 25 



THE IV IDE-SWUNG GATES 



The Genius of the West 

Upon her high-seen throne, 
Who greets the incoming guest 

And loves him as her own ; 
The Genius of these States 

She hears these modern pleas 
For the closing of the gates 
Of the highways of her seas. 
"Fence not my realm," she says, " build me no 

continent pen. 
Still let my gates swing wide for all the sons of 
men." 

The Genius of these States, 

She of the open hand. 
Stands by the open gates 

That look to every land : 
" Come hence " (she hears the groans, 

The distance-raufifled din 
Of millions crushed by thrones), 

"Come hence and enter in. 



26 Songs of War and Peace 

Shut not my gates," she says, "that front the in- 
flowing tide. 

For all the sons of men still let my gates swing 
wide." 

"What! leave thy bolts withdrawn ? " 

Cry they of little faith, 
"For Europe's voided spawn, 

Spores of the Old World's death ? 
These monsters wallowing wide 

In anarchy's black fen ? " 
"Peace, peace, it is my pride 
To make these monsters men ; 
With the Great Builder work that knows not Greek 

or Jew, 
And from an old-world stuff fashion a world anew. 

" And in my new-built state 

The tribes of men shall fuse, 
And men no longer prate 

Of Gentiles and of Jews : 
Here seek no racial caste. 
No social cleavage seek. 
Here one, while time shall last. 
Barbarian and Greek : 
And here shall spring at length, in narrowing caste's 

despite. 
That last growth of the world, the first Cosmopolite. 



The Wide -Swung Gates 27 

"A man not made of mud 

My coming man shall be, 
But of the mingled blood 

Of every tribe is he. 
The vigor of the Dane, 

The deftness of the Celt, 
The Latin suppleness of brain 
In him shall fuse and melt ; 
The muscularity of soul of the strong West be blent 
With the wise dreaminess that broods above the 
Orient. 

" Here clashing creeds upraise 

Their warring standards long, 
Till the ferment of our days 

Shall make our new wine strong. 
Let thought meet thought in fight, 
Let systems clash and clinch, — 
The false must sink in night, 
The truth yields not an inch. 
No thought left loose, ungyved, can long a menace 

be 
Within a tolerant land where every thought is free." 

The Genius of the West 

Upon her high-seen throne 
Thus greets the incoming guest 

And clasps him as her own. 



28 Songs of IVar and Peace 

The Genius of these States 

Puts by these modern pleas 
For the closing of the gates 
Of the highways of her seas. 
"Fence not my realm," she says, "build me no 

continent pen, 
Still let my gates swing wide for all the sons of 
men." 



The Song of the Cannon 29 



THE SOATG OF THE CANNON 



When the diplomats cease from their capers, 

Their red-tape requests and rephes, 
Their shuttlecock battle of papers, 

Their saccharine parley of lies ; 
When the plenipotentiary wrangle 

Is tied in a chaos of knots, 
And becomes an unwindable tangle 

Of verbals unmarried to thoughts ; 
When they've anguished and argued profoundly, 

Asserted, assumed, and averred, 
Then I end up the dialogue roundly 

With my monosyllabical word. 

Not mine is a speech academic, 

No lexicon lingo is mine, 
And in politic parley, polemic, 

I was never created to shine. 
But I speak with some show of decision, 

And I never attempt to be bland, 
I hurl my one word with precision. 

My hearers — they all understand. 



30 Songs of War ami Peace 

It requires no labored translation, 
Its pith and its import to glean ; 

They gather its signification, 

They know at the first what I mean. 

The codes of the learned legations. 

Of form and of rule and decree, 
The etiquette books of the nations — 

They were never intended for me. 
When your case is talked into confusion, 

Then hush you, my diplomat friend. 
Give me just a word in conclusion, 

I'll bring the dispute to an end. 
Ye diplomats, cease to aspire 

A case that's appealed to debate, 
It has gone to a court that is higher. 

And I'm the Attorney for Fate. 



A Recipe for Success 3 1 



A RECIPE FOR SUCCESS 



How is it I have prospered so? How is it I have 

struck 
Throughout the hull of my ka-reer jest one long 

streak of luck? 
Intellijunce, young man; that's all. I reason an' 

reflec' — 
'Tis jest intellijunce an' brains an' straightout in- 

tellec'. 

Wen I git up I'm alius sure to dress me right foot 
first, 

Or put my drawers on wrong side out, or hev my 
vest reversed. 

For them are signs you'll hev good luck ; an eddi- 
cated man 

Knows all them signs, an' shapes his life on a con- 
sistent plan. 

I've strewed ol' hoss-shoes down the road for some- 
thin' like a mile. 
An' I go out an' hunt 'em up a-every little while; 



j-^ 



Songs of War and Peace 



For if you fin' a hoss-shoe, w'y, you're sure to pros- 
per then; 
A fac' that is familyer to all eddicated men. 

A cat's tail p'intin' to'rds the fire, it is an awful 

sign; 
But I hev counteracted it with every cat of mine; 
If my cat's tail should p'int that way it wouldn' give 

me scares; 
I'd go in my back entry then an' simply fall up-stairs. 

It's a good sign to fall up-stairs an' counteracts the 

cat; 
An' that's the way I shape my life, I balance this 

with that. 
I see four crows — bad sign I know — might scare 

a man that's bolder; 
But I jest wait an' see the moon rise over my right 

shoulder. 

The moon it counteracts the crows ; one balances 

the other, 
For one is jest wiped out, you see, an' cancelled off 

by t'other. 
I hear a dog howl in the night; it don't give me no 

dread, 
I balance it by gittin' out the right han' side the 

bed. 



A Recipe for Success 33 

An' so I've prospered all my life by jest a little 

pains. 
Intellijunce, young man, that's all, an' intellec' an' 

brains. 
'Tis ignorunce that makes men fail. An' wisdom — 

nothin' less — 
Inlightenmunt an' knowledge, sir, can bring a man 

success. 



34 Songs of War and Peace 



THE SONG OF A RIVER 



Hear my song of a rwer, 

lis calm and its strife ; 
''lis the song of a river, 

The song of a life. 

Afar amid benignant hills in caverns of deep shade, 

'Neath rippling arches of cool leaves, within a for- 
est glade, 

The mountain rivulet leaps clown in silvery cascade. 

Child of the hills, it sings its song and spills its 
wayward glee 

In tangled music through the rocks and dreams not 
of the sea. 

It spills ambrosial morning joy and dreams not of - 
the sea. 

And there are many-colored birds that join their 

mingled strain. 
And many zephyr-tumbled leaves that swell the 

strong refrain, 
And the voice of the sombre pine alone is the only 

voice of pain. 



The Song of a River 35 

'Tis the only voice that tells of the sea that's 

under sun or star, 
And a foolish, phantom voice to the stream that 

dreams the sea is far. 
That dreams that the v^^orld is a mighty world and 

the sea is very far. 

But birds from the south fly into the hills and sing 

of a world unknown, 
And there are winds that float from the west from 

odorous valleys blown. 
And the winds that tell of a meadowy land with 

deep grass overgrown ; 
And a land beyond the meadowy land at the end of 

a winding glen, 
A steaming land and a strenuous land, the Land of 

the Roar of Men — 
And the river is fain for the meadowy land and the 

Land of the Roar of Men. 

II 

Hear my so fig of a river, 

Its calm and its strife ; 
' Tis the song of a river, 

The song of a life. 

And the river leaps to the meadowy land and is 
strong in the stress of its flow. 



3^ Songs of War and Peace 

It is hurled by the weight of its floods above and is 

mad for tlie deep below, 
For it hastens on to the falls ahead where the mead- 

owless cities grow. 
And it leaps the falls and joins in the noise of the 

Land of the Roar of Men, 
Till it yearns for the peace of the sleeping hills 

and the deeps of the woodland glen — ■ 
By the giant wheels of the thunderous mills it 

yearns for the woodland glen. 

And the spindles clash in the thunderous mills and 

the work of the world is done, 
And men are hived from the breath of the hills and 

the glory of the sun. 
And the lives of men are ravelled out, but webs of 

cloth are spun. 
Through its darkened sluice of builded stone its 

writhing waters flee, 
Till it yearns for the meads of the salted tide and 

the voice of the calling sea. 
For the tolerant plains of the tided meads and the 

voice of the friendly sea. 

And it flows to the meads of the salted tide and is 

cheered by the ocean's roar, • 
For in the roar is a mystic Voice that speaks for- 

evermore, 



The Song of a River 37 

A mystic Voice in a mystic song that sings of a 

thitherward shore. 
And the river is calm with the calm of the Voice 

and through the salted lea, 
In the silent trance of a pleasant sleep it falls in 

the waiting sea — 
Falls lulled by the croon of the mystic song in the 

mother arms of the sea. 

My so fig of a river, 

Its calm and its strife ; 
My so?ig of a river, 

The river of life. 



38 Songs of War and Peace 



A BROOK AND A LIFE 



I 

I KNOW a brook that flits and flows 

Where many a water-lily grows; 
That leaps with singing down the hills, 

Then sleeps in meadows of repose. 
I know a brook whose silvery sheen 
Gleams through its arbored banks of green, 
Then dashes down a mad ravine, — 
I know a brook: 

But till its latest mile is gone 

A brook must ever travel on. 

This brook I know is fed by rills 

That tumble from the singing hills, 
This brook leaps down its bowldered banks 

And far its liquid music spills. 
Then flows where deep-toned pines complain, 
And whippoorwills pour their song of pain 
To the unpitying night in vain — 
This brook I know : 

For till its latest mile is gone 

A brook must ever travel on. 



A Brook and a Life 39 

And then it sweeps from out the gloom 

To turn the mill and whirl the loom, 
And draws a nurture from the night 

That makes its water-lilies bloom. 
It has its days of gloom and glee, 
Its dark pine woods and lighted lea, — 
And then 'tis lost within the sea. 
This brook of mine : 

For till its latest mile is gone 

A brook must ever travel on. 



II 

I know a life that flits and flows 

Where many a water-lily grows, 
That dances down the singing hills. 

And sleeps in meadows of repose. 
I know a life, that, like a stream, 
Has caught the glory and the gleam 
Of many a white cloud's floating dream. 
I know a life : 

And till its latest hour is gone 

A life must ever travel on. 

I know a life whose winding ways 
Have flowed through leagues of sunny days. 
And gathered music for its song 

From meadow larks and woodland lays. 



40 Songs of l^Var and Peace 

This life I know has flowed alone 
Where groves of pine make solemn moan, 
Has flowed by night when no star shone — 
This life I know: 

For till its latest hour is gone 

A life must ever travel on. 

And then it leaped from out the gloom 
To turn the mill and whirl the loom, 
And drew a nurture from the night 

That made its water-lilies bloom ; 
Though swollen by the rain of tears, 
Or smiled on by the sunny years. 
The sea's far voice is in thine ears, 
O life I know ! 
And till thy latest hour is gone 
Toward that dim sea flow bravely on. 



The Brook and the Boy 41 



THE BROOK AND THE BOY 



" Oh, the hills are fair where I shall flow," 
Said the song of the brook to the boy; 
"And the meadows are sweet to which I go," 

Said the song of the brook to the boy; 
" For I flow on to a broader land, 
To scenes where wider vales expand, 
To a land where lordlier mountains stand," 
Said the song of the brook to the boy." 

" And I go into a broader land," 

Said the heart of the boy to the brook ; 
"To the towered towns and the cities grand," 

Said the heart of the boy to the brook. 

" Oh, the coming day draws near, and then 

I will leave this dreary woodland glen — 

A leader of men in a world of men," 

Said the heart of the boy to the brook. 

II 

"Ah, me, for the peace of the hills again," 
Said the song of the stream to the man, — 



42 Songs of Way and Peace 

"The brooding peace of the woocUand glen," 

Said the song of the stream to the man. 
"And, oh, for the rest of the quiet glade, 
And the dreaming peace of the alder shade. 
And the vales where the smiles of the morning 
played," 
Said the song of the stream to the man. 

"And, oh, for the meadows of youth once more!" 

Said the heart of the man to the stream; 
"And the dewy hope of the days of yore! " 
Said the heart of the man to the stream. 
" And, oh, for the strength of its sunrise joy, 
When living was play and the world was a toy; 
And, oh, for the hope of the heart of a boy ! " 
Said the heart of the man to the stream. 



Farragut to Deivey 43 



FA RR A GUT TO DEIVEY 



Said the Goddess of Fame to the pedestalled 
shade 

Of Farragut looming on high : 
" Move over a bit on your pedestal, man, 

For a twin-born of Fame draweth nigh ; 
Move over a bit, give him room at your side, 

A trifle of space you must spare 
For the first of the sons of the sea of our day, 

So make room for Dewey up there." 

"And who is this Dewey? " the gray shade replies. 

"He is one of your sailors," said Fame; 
"And the sea-winds that blow on both sides of 
the world 

Are loud with the sound of his name. 
Without losing a ship, or a gun, or a man, 

Spain's navy he sunk in the sea." 
Said Farragut then to the new son of Fame : 

" Approach, and come up here with me 1 " 



44 Songs of IVar and Peace 



TWO BRIDES 



I 

The Man who Loved the Names of Things 

Went forth beneath the skies, 
And named all things that he beheld, 

And people called him wise. 
An unseen presence walked with him 

Forever by his side, 
The wedded mistress of his soul, — 

For Knowledge was his bride ; 
She named the flowers, the weeds, the trees, 
And all the growths of all the seas. 

She told him all the rocks by name, 

The winds and whence they blew; 
She told him how the seas were formed, 

And how the mountains grew ; 
She numbered all the stars for him 

And all the rounded skies 
Were mapped and charted for the gaze 

Of his devouring eyes. 
Thus, taught by her, he taught the crowd ; 
They praised — and he was very proud. 



Two Brides 45 

II 

The Man who Loved the Soul of Things 

Went forth serene and glad, 
And mused upon the mighty world, 

And people called hirn mad. 
An unseen presence walked with him 

Forever by his side, 
The wedded mistress of his soul, — 

For Wisdom was his bride. 
She showed him all this mighty frame. 
And bade him feel — but named no name. 

She stood with him upon the hills 

Ringed by the azure sky, 
And shamed his lowly thought with stars. 

And bade it climb as high. 
And all the birds he could not name. 

The nameless stars that roll. 
The unnamed blossoms at his feet, 

Talked with him soul to soul ; 
He heard the Nameless Glory speak 
In silence — and was very meek. 



4^ Sofigs of War and Peace 



SURVIVALS 



A THOUSAND acorns through the mould, 
One summer in the days of old, 

Burst forth into the sun and breeze 
To grow into a thousand trees. 
To fight the storm and brave the cold, 
And live through many centuries. 

There came a keen, untimely frost ; 
Five hundred infant oaks were lost. 

And then the herds that chanced that 
way, 

The browsing kine and lambs at play 
Among the hillocks greenly mossed. 

Cropped down four hundred in a day. 

A hundred oaks were left to grow, 
But fourscore perished in the snow ; 
And of the score that still remain 

Ten fall before the hurricane, 
Ten challenge all the winds that blow 

And cast their shade o'er all the plain. 



Survivals 47 

But, as the years pass on, one oak 
Lies shattered by the thunder-stroke, 

And one is felled, the woodman's prey ; 

One falls through it's own heart's decay ; 
One in the whirlwind's fury broke, 

And two the torrents swept away. 

Four oaks now toward the sun aspire ; 

One falls before an earthquake dire, 
And one is dragged away in chains 
A keel to plough the ocean plains ; 

One withers in a forest fire, 

And one — one only oak — remains. 

And there it stands, the centuries' pride, 

The monarch of the mountain side. 

Blessed by five hundred summers bland. 
By breaths of ferny fragrance fanned ; 

But no one notes the oaks that died — 
They are forgotten in the land. 

II 

Each summer 'mid the waste and weeds 

Doth Nature sow immortal seeds. 
And scatter over field and fen, 
Through tumbled gorge and babbling 
glen. 

The seeds of men of mighty deeds, 
Seeds of a thousand deathless men. 



48 Songs of War and Peace 

A thousand men of loftier strain, 
Of ampler soul and subtler brain, 
By Nature's unexhausted hand 
Are sown each year in every land — 
Strong men, and dowered to attain 

The heights where the immortals stand. 

But many in a sordid age 

Yield up their birthright heritage, 

And, scorched by traffic's poison breath. 
Their germ of grandeur withereth ; 
For tinsel, tags, and equipage 

They give their better parts to death. 

And some forget their mighty trust 
Through weakness mixed with human dust 
They burn with phosphorescent fire 
Engendered in the slime and mire ; 
Are torn by tigers of their lust, 
And slain by dragons of desire. 

And some from their high path depart 
Through inborn cowardice of heart ; 
Some fall unnoted in the stress 
Of their unneighbored loneliness ; 
Some freely choose the baser part. 
And greatness yields to littleness. 

And some whose tainted blood is rife 
With poison at the core of life. 



Survivals 49 

Who cry, " The fault is not in us ! " 
But Fate will pause not to discuss — 
They perish in the unequal strife 
Who fight with beasts at Ephesus. 

And some send out their branching shoots, . 
But perish from unwatered roots ; 

Some, smit by sorrow's thunder-stone, 

Go down at midnight and alone ; 
Some, charmed by pleasure's shawms and 
flutes, 

Play no high music of their own. 

Ill 

A thousand men were sown broadcast — 
Mayhap but one survives at last. 

He shapes our thoughts and rules our 
ways. 

And lives an endless length of days, 
And mates the mighty of the past, 

Enshrined in Pantheon pomp of praise. 

Immortal are the songs he sings, 
And deathless is the word he brings ; 
Aye, deathless is his very breath. 
Far, far his long thought journeyeth ; 
But, ah ! his termless life — it springs 
From the dark soil of many deaths. 



50 Songs of IVcir and Peace 



THE AWAKENING OF UNCLE SAM 



"Oh, Uncle Sam," they said, "has grown fat and 
loves his ease, 

And he lingers long at table and distends his grow- 
ing girth; 

The strong arm we used to know has grown slug- 
gard-like and slow. 

And they mock his smug indifference to the ends 
of all the earth. 

"As his money bags grow heavy does his love of 
man grow small. 

As his cushioned chair grows softer does his cal- 
loused heart grow hard ; 

He is careless of his fame and the glory of his 
name, 

And the vision of the prophet and the rapture of 
the bard. 

"And the tyrants in their anger lash their slaves 

before his eyes. 
And he turns his sleepy features tow'rd their faces 

hot with tears, 



The Awakening of Uncle Scini 51 

And he sits between his seas in his soft, voluptuous 

ease, 
And the voices of their torment smite his undis- 

cerning ears." 

Ah, the slander of the tongues that proclaimed his 

heart was cold ! 
Ah, the error of the dotage that believed his arm 

was weak ! 
Ah, the folly, mad and dire, that provoked the slow 

to ire, 
And the pride that's in the careless, and the might 

that's in the meek ! 

He has risen from his feasting, the old look is on 

his face, 
For the voices of the helpless and the dying throng 

his path, 
For he sees at last their tears, and their groans are 

in his ears. 
And his arm is clothed with thunder, and his heart 

is nerved with wrath ! 

We have wronged him, the forbearing, him the 

patient, slow to smite. 
And we love him more than ever and are prouder 

of his fame; 



52 ^ Songs of War and Peace 

And we weep the taunts we uttered and the whis- 
pered sneers we muttered — 

For his guns before Manihx silenced all the tongues 
of blame. 



Peter, the Orthodox 53 



PETER, THE ORTHODOX 



"Pete, you're a common laughing-stock, 
You are the village butt. 
Your hair is so outrageous long — 
Why don't you get it cut ? " 
" Bekase dere ain't no barber, sah, 
Dat's good ernuff foh me ; 
Dere ain't no barber in dis town 
Dat's up to my idee." 

"Why, there is 'Rastus Graham, Pete, 

A barber up to par." 
"La! yes; but den I kain't hev him, 
Foh he's a Baptis', sah. 
No low-down Baptis' herertic 

So bigotty ez he 
Shall never cut de ha'r upon 
A Meferdis like me." 

" But Pratt's a barber just as good 
As any on the list; 
A splendid barber, and besides 
An earnest Methodist." 



54 Songs of War and Peace 

t 

" He am a Meferdis, I know, 
But I kain't train wiv Pratt 
Bekase I am a 'Publican 
An' he's a Dimmerkrat." 

"But there is Bangs, a Methodist, 
A very righteous man, 
A Methodist in high repute, 
A good Republican." 
" But he's a homerpaff, the wretch, 
Ez bad ez he can be, 
An' he kain't cut de wool on sich 
An allopaff ez me. 

I Stan's foh righteousness, I does, 

Foh troof an' nufhn' less; 
No Baptis' trash an' homerpaffs 

Can suit my piousness. 
Wen some good barber comes to town, 

A Meferdis fair an' squar', 
An allopaff an' 'Publican, 

W'y, he can cut my ha'r." 



The Wordless yoke 55 



THE IVORDLESS VOICE 



A DWELLER in a hut alone, fed from a dish of wood, 
A drinker of the fiowing brook, a child of solitude, 
A sleeper on a bed of leaves, may find that life is 

good, 
And hear high music on his way that bids his soul 

rejoice, 
If his wise ear has learned to hear — to hear the 

Wordless Voice. 

The Wordless Voice it speaks not in the syllables 
of men; 

'Tis borne along the night wind down the glimmer- 
ing of the glen ; 

It talks among the rushes in the fluttering of the fen ; 

It flows along all valleys where any brook can flow. 

Where any stream can catch the gleam of sunlight 
or of snow. 

It speaks beside all pathways that wind beneath all 

trees, 
And speaks from all the chanting shores that circle 

all the seas, 



5 6 Songs of IV a r and Peace 

And from the hills that know no plough, and from 
the spadeless leas, 

It speaks a language, not of men, but plainly un- 
derstood, 

By men who love, below, above, all things and 
deem them good. 

The noises blown about the world beneath the scorn- 
ful stars. 

The cannons of the Captains and the thunder of the 
wars ; 

The sound that tears the jangled years and all their 
music mars. 

Cannot drown down the Wordless Voice that from 
the silence speaks; 

'Tis blown to men from every glen and floats from 
all the peaks. 

Dark for the world would be the day that saw that 

Voice withdrawn; 
Then would the day be emptiness, the race of men 

but spawn ; 
No twilight peace would fall at night, no hope would 

come with dawn ; 
No dreams would haunt the sky line, no fancies 

throng the glen ; 
The wretched weight of iron fate would crush the 

hearts of men. 



The JVordless yoke S7 

Up from the deeps of silence the awful mountains 

rise, 
And in the deeps of silence are arched the sacred 

skies, 
And in the peace of silence sleep the eternities; 
And from the soul of silence that was ere time 

began 
Comes forth the Voice that bids rejoice and speaks 

its word to man. 



SS Songs of War and Peace 



THE VEAST OF EVOLUTION 



The yeast of evolution was dropped into the welter 

Of the drifting sea of chaos long ago ; 
And then the cloud-shapes gathered and the world- 
stuff floated mistlike, 
Till the pulp of stars was hardened and the worlds 
began to grow. 

And the yeast of evolution worked upon the plastic 
planets, 
And our fire-world bubbled mountains to the sky ; 
And our continents emerging shook the sea from off 
their highlands, 
And the red-jawed dragons wallowed where all life 
but theirs would die. 

And the yeast of evolution worked into the blood of 
dragons. 
And they perished and their bellowing died away; 
And the slowly mellowing cycles rolled their slow- 
paced revolutions, 
And the primal Man came forward and stood 
naked to the day. 



The Yeast of Evolution 59 

And the yeast of evolution grew within his aimless 
purpose, 
And the hairy savage battled, clan with clan, 
Till the strong-armed brute grew conscious of a 
deeper life within him, 
And the soul of man grew conscious and revealed 
itself to man. 

Then the yeast of evolution works its great amelio- 
ration, 
And the World Tree sheds its blossoms through 
the gloom, 
Till it flowers into Moses, Homer, Plato, Dante, 
Shakespeare, — 
Flowers prophecies of flowers that are yet to 
burst in bloom. 

For the yeast of evolution works, as hitherto, for- 
ever ; 
We are in the morning hours of our day ; 
Down the ever-widening vista whose long stretches 
end in twilight 
We shall come on new perfections, meet new 
music on the way. 

Yea, the yeast of evolution works, as hitherto, for- 
ever ; 
Far are now the wallowing dragons in their slime ; 



6o Songs of War and Peace 

Ah, but farther, farther, farther, is the long, long way 
before us, 
We shall meet a loftier music down the thorough- 
fare of time. 



The Pulliiig-Through of Todium 6i 



THE PULLING-THROUGH OF TODLUM 



The crassest man in Glosterkonk, 
Without no doubt, is Dr. Bronk. 
or Dr. Bronk hez got a jaw 
That's firmer than the morril law, 
An' Dr. Bronk hez got a frown 
That purty nearly knocks ye down. 
Gee ! he is sot an' stiff an' tough, 
An' made of linkum vity stuff. 
Wen he comes in a sick room he 
Kicks up etarnal bobbery ; 
He jaws because the air's too het, 
An' 'cause he finds the winders shet , 
He's jest ez like to scold ez not 
'Cause the cold water is too hot ; 
An' then, nex' minute, he will scold 
'Cause the hot water is too cold. 
He scares the women from their wits. 
An' gives the nurse conniption fits ; 
An' w'en he's there they want to die. 
An' w'en he's gone they set an' cry. 
But we love Dr. Bronk, we do ; 
For Dr. Bronk pulled Todium through. 



62 Songs of War and Peace 

But there are few in Glosterkonk 

Who waste much love on Dr. Bronk, 

For even gentle Elder Priest 

Says he is savage as a beast ; 

An' Abram Murch an' Hiram Howe 

Say they wouldn' hev him to a cow; 

An' that good soul, A'nt Hester Pratt, 

Sez she wouldn' hev him to a cat, 

Wouldn' hev the pesky critter nigh 

Onless she wished the cat to die. 

" or vinegar is honeycomb 

Compared to him," said Deacon Home. 

"A bear's a gentleman," said Jim, 

"A gentleman compared to him." 

Wall, maybe all these things are true, 

But Bronk, he pulled our Todlum through. 

Young Todlum he was very sick, 

An' we got smilin' Dr. Dick ; 

He tol' us 'twas no use to try ; 

A hopeless case ; the child mus' die. 

"Git Dr. Brown 1 " my wife she cried. 

He came ; the child had almost died. 

"No use," said Dr. Brown. "Too late! 

No use, good friends, to fight with fate." 

An' then my wife she turned to me, 

" Run quick an' git ol' Bronk ! " said she. 

An' ol' Bronk came. How he did swear 



The Pulling-Through of Todliim ^l 

About the closeness of the air ; 

Threw off three quilts upon the floor, 

An' bellered out, " Don't shet that door ! " 

He sent us flyin' here an' there. 

An' everything we did he'd swear. 

He kept us in a tremblin' plight, 

For everything we did warn't right. 

But we held in — didn' make a sound — 

An' let the ol' bear thunder 'round. 

He kept us jumpin' all night long. 

An' everything we did was wrong. 

At daylight Todlum gave a groan, 

A still, faint, awful kind o' moan ! 

" He's going ! He's going ! " my wife she cried, 

An' fell down sobbin' at his side. 

" Don't bawl so, woman ; can't yer see 

Yer cub is goin' to live," sez he. 

Todlum looked up, the blessed child ! 

Into his mother's face an' smiled. 

" Don't make sich thunderin' hullabaloo," 

Said Bronk, "I've pulled the rascal through." 

" Don't make such thunderin' hullabaloo ; 
Get up 1 I've pulled yer rascal through." 
The sweetest words that ever rung 
From any seraph angel's tongue 
Were not so sweet as these he said 



64 Songs of Way and Peace 

While we were standiu' roun' that bed. 
My wife she threw her arms around 
That ol' bear's neck with one glad bound ; 
Her face was in his whiskers hid, 
She hugged an' kissed him — yes, she did ! 
The sweetest words we ever heard, 
Although, I guess it soun's absurd, 
Were just them words that ol' Bronk said 
While we were standin' roun' that bed : 
" Don't make sich thunderin' hullabaloo, 
Get up ! I've pulled yer rascal through." 



The Dome of Pictures 65 



THE DOME OF PICTURES 



In a little house keep I pictures suspended ; it is not a fixed liouse, 
It is round, it is only a few inches from one side to the other ; 
Yet beliold, it has room for all the shows of the world, all memories ! 
Here the tableaux of life and here the groupings of death. 

Walt Whitman. 

Ah, each man bears his Dome of Dreams — 
A picture dome 
Whereon are painted homely cares, 
Defeats and triumphs and despairs ; 
A gallery thronged with wider themes 
Than those of Rome. 

The pictures on this Dome of Dreams 
Are memories. 
Young Barefoot wandering through the dew, 
Through daisied fields when life was new. 
By woodland paths, by lilied streams 
And blossomed trees. 

The picture of a maid at school 
With floating hair : 
Transfigured in the mist is she 
On that dim shore of memory, 
Life's dewiness about her, cool 
And pure and fair. 



66 Songs of War and Peace 

The picture of a road that leads 
From an old home : 
K. boy that from a wooded swell 
Looks through his tears and waves farewell — 
Then down through unknown hills and meads 
Afar to roam. 

The pictures of the long, long way- 
He travelled far; 
Fair fruited hillsides slanting south, 
Baked herbless uplands smit with drouth, 
And night paths with no gleam of day — 
Without a star. 

And pictures of wide-sleeping vales 

And storm-tossed waves ; 
Of valleys bathed in noonday peace, 
Of sheltered harbors of release ; 
And glimpses of receding sails; 

Of open graves. 

And pictures of fair islands set 

In golden foam ; 
And pictures of black wrecks upcast 
On barren crags by many a blast — 
But on ! Life paints more pictures yet 

Upon that dome. 



IVhen He has an Idea in His Head 67 



WHEAT HE HAS AN IDEA IN HIS HEAD 



No mountains can stand in the way of a man 

Who has an idea in his head, 
No whirlwinds can blow him away from his plan 

When he has an idea in his head. 
He is scared by no menace of mountainous seas 
Or the heavens sowing thunderbolts wide on the 

breeze — 
If his idea is large, it is larger than these — 

When he has an idea in his head. 

The loud sons of thunder may bellow their wrath 

When he has an idea in his head, 
The tumult of tongues welter over his path 

When he has an idea in his head ; 
The sound of the shouters may sound in his ear. 
The blare of the babblers environ him near — 
He stalks through their jangle with never a fear, 

When he has an idea in his head. 

He has looked in the face of the famine and smiled 

When he had an idea in his head, 
Bared his neck to the axe with a soul reconciled 

When he had an idea in his head; 



68 Songs of War aiid Peace 

He has stood in the flame with a Hght in his eye 
That outshone the fire that blazoned the sky ; 
They burned him to cinders — his thought did not 
die, 
When he had an idea in his head. 

Shall we padlock his lips? Shall we handcuff his 
hands 

When he has an idea in his head ? 
Shall we fetter his feet and his arms with steel 
bands 

When he has an idea in his head ? 
Very well; we will bind him, a feasible plan, 
Let us bind him and all of his pestilent clan — 
But where is the halter can tie such a man 

When he has an idea in his head ? 

No, no ; turn him loose ; turn him loose among men 

When he has an idea in his head ; 
Let him carry his message to city and glen 

When he has an idea in his head. 
Yes, hold back the tides from the shore, if you can. 
And hold back the bolt from the cloud with your 

ban — 
But woe to the man who would fetter the man 

Who has an idea in his head. 



Uiica)ioni{eii Saints 69 



UNCANONIZED SAINTS 



Not all the saints are canonized : 

There's lots of 'em close by; 
There's some of 'em in my own ward, 

Some in my family; 
They're thick here in my neighborhood, 

They throng here in my street ; 
My sidewalk has been badly worn 

By their promiscuous feet. 

Not all the heroes of the world 

Are apotheosized ; 
Their names make our directories 

Of very ample size ; 
And almost every family 

Whose number is complete. 
Has one or more about the board 

When they sit down to eat. 

Not all the martyrs of the world 

Are in the Martyrology ; 
Not all their tribe became extinct 

In some remote chronology. 



70 Songs of War and Peace 

Three live ones talked with me to-day, 

Five passed me with a bow, 
I met a dozen at the store, — 

There goes a couple now ! 

The ichthyosaurus is extinct. 

The great auk is no more ; 
But heroes, martyrs, saints, are thick 

As in the days of yore. 
Not like the auk and mastodon 

Whose bones alone are found, 
These are the types that still persist 

And evermore abound. 

Why weep for saints long dead and gone ? 

There's plenty still to meet ; 
Put on your wraps and call upon 

The saints upon your street. 
Oh, Plutarch's heroes were strong souls 

And men of parts and pith, — 
But there's McPeters and O'Brien, 

Stubbs, Anderson, and Smith. 

And Foxe's martyrs were strong souls, 

But still their likes remain : 
There's good old Mother Haggerty, 

And there is sweet Aunt Jane. 



Uncanoniied Saints 71 

You know them just as well as I, 
Since they're a numerous brood, 

For they are with you all, and live 
In every neighborhood. 



72 Songs of War and Peace 



THE HIGHER CARELESSNESS 



It happenea in the days of old 
Brahm gave a man an egg to hold. 
"Hold ye this egg," he said, "and learn 
To bide in peace till I return." 
Then from the earth a mist upreared 
Wherein the great Brahm disappeared. 



II 

The self-same nour in days of old 

Brahm gave a man a rod to hold, 

And said, "This rod is grooved to gears 

Whereby I guide the moving spheres; 

This is the lever rod whereby 

I move the worlds that throng the sky. 

Hold ye this rod," he said, "and learn 

To bide in peace till I return." 

Then through a thunder-cloud he steered, 

And mid the lightnings disappeared. 



The Hi her Carelessness 73 



The man who held the egg turned pale, 

And his weak heart began to fail. 

"Ah," groaned he, " by what vain decree 

Did Brahm assign this egg to nie? 

This universe is ruled, 'tis plain, 

By fickle gods of little brain; 

The worlds roll on in aimless dance 

To jangled tunes of brainless chance; 

Men are but animated clods. 

The trifling playthings of the gods; 

The universe is built on guess, 

Its base is laid on nothingness; 

And Brahm, he plays a monster's part, 

And deep I hate him from my heart." 

His heart grew cold in awful doubt. 

His hand relaxed — • the egg dropped out, 

Fell to the earth without delay. 

And smashed, as eggs will smash to-day. 

IV 

The man who held the awful rod 

Mused on the greatness of the god, 

Upon the wisdom of his plan; 

The awful majesty of man ; 

The great eonian goals whereto 

The worlds are moved the ages through ; 



74 Songs of War ami Peace 

The cycles of the cosmic range, 

Their upward sweep from change to change ; 

I'he soul of goodness at the core 

Of nature's heart forevermore; 

And all his soul was ravished by 

The spheral music harmony. 

" Brahm plays," he said, " a father's part, 

And deep I love him from my heart." 

So, rapt in wonderment sublime. 

He lost the sense of space and time, 

And musing on the ways of God — 

Forgot his charge and dropped the rod. 



Then through the deeps of space were hurled 

The wrecks of many a shattered world ; 

And many a sun \}\ aimless flight 

Shot flaming through chaotic night; 

From their eternal stations high 

The stars forsook the reeling sky; 

And Chaos oped its Stygian deep, 

(Drowsed in eternities of sleep). 

To crown Creation's final curse. 

And gulp the ruined universe. 

VI 

Then Brahm returned, and waved his hand 
In silent gesture of command. 



The Higher Carelessness 75 

And moved tow'rd Chaos' seething swim, 
And called the wild suns back to him. 
And, back from bournless gulfs of space, 
Each star returned to his own place. 
And then, with a benignant nod. 
He called the man who dropped the rod. 
The man who dropped the egg drew near, 
And stood before the god in fear. 

VII 

Then to the man who dropped the rod 
He said, " Thou art beloved of God; 
And unto thee henceforth is given 
The guidance of the lower heaven." 
But said to him who dropped the egg: 
"I see that thou art still a dreg; 
I re-incarnate thee anew 
Into a worm — for 'tis thy due. 
Be beast, bird, reptile of the fen 
Ere thou emerge a man agen. 
A thousand cycles must be run 
Ere thou, as man, shalt see the sun." 
" I only dropped an egg," said he, 
" Then why impose this curse on me? 
And why not give to him thy curse — 
This man who dropped a universe? 
But unto him a place is given, 
Vicesrerent of the lower heaven." 



7^ Songs of War and Peace 

" Ah, learn," said Brahm, " the eternal fact, 

It is the thought behind the act, 

And not the act, I bless or ban, — 

The motive, not the deed, of man. 

He loved, while thou didst hate. Depart — 

Depart, and be the worm thou art." 



Jupiter Pliivins, Jr. 77 



JUPITER PLUVIUS, JR. 



I STAND, in evening's shade withdrawn, 

Mid twilight's dusky forms, 
A Jupiter Pluvius of the lawn, 

A local god of storms. 
Not mine Jove's thunderbolts which clove 

The blasted heath and holt ; 
I hold the storms of Pluvian Jove 

Without his thunderbolt. 
The nozzle of my hose I press, 

And proudly take my stand ; 
I stand and pour my thunderless 

Tornadoes on the land. 

I grasp the nozzle of my hose, 

And proudly I opine 
Old Adam's Eden life was prose 

Compared to life like mine. 
Why for his hoseless garden sigh, 

And for his hoseless day .'' 
For what's a garden when it's dry 

Without a hose, I say } 
And so with joy I walk about. 

And thread the evening gloom. 



7^ Songs of War and Peace 

And lug my wandering waterspout 
And portable simoom. 

The little toads look up to me, 

And though they all are dumb, 
They think : " Our mighty deity. 

The god of storms, has come. 
From his benignant hand doth fly 

The rain he giveth free, 
He holds the cisterns of the sky, 

The fountains of the sea ; 
His gracious storms new hopes infuse 

Through all the fainting land — 
Behold the mighty oceans ooze 

Forever from his hand." 

Outside my yard the hot dog star 

Rules with malefic sway — 
My hose turns back the calendar, 

Within my yard, to May ; 
I heed not August's fiery thrill, 

For well I understand 
A man can carry, if he will. 

His climate in his hand. 
Then turn the nozzle of your hose 

In any clime or zone. 
And make, the while its current flows, 

A climate of your own. 



Jupiter Phmiis, Jr. 79 

The hand that may not hold the sword, 

Or guide the ship of state, 
Or write the poet's burning word, 

Or do the deeds of fate ; 
The feeble hand of little worth 

For battle or for blows 
May add new freshness to the earth 

By turning on the hose. 
The nozzle of my hose I press, 

And proudly take my stand ; 
I stand and pour my thunderless 

Tornadoes on the land. 



So Songs of IVar and Peace 



MOTHER ASIA 



Mother Asia, we stand at your threshold. 

In a far immemorial yore 
We left you, great Mother of Nations, 

And now we return to your door. 
We have circled the seas and their islands. 

We have found us new worlds in the main. 
We have found us young brides o'er the alien 
tides — 

Now we come to our mother again. 

We wandered through ages unnumbered, 

We were mad with the fever to roam, 
But the new flag that waves at Manila 

Proclaims that your sons have come home. 
There are weeds in the Gardens of Morning, 

There are mildew and dearth and decay, 
And your blind days are drear and your heart 
has grown sere 

The years that your sons were away. 

But turn your old eyes to the seaward 
Where the flag of the West is discerned. 



Mother Asia ^ 

Be glad, gray old Mother of Nations, 
The youth of the world has returned. 

They come with the wealth of their wanderings, 
They come with the strength of their pride ; 

Now, old mother, arise and lift up your dim 
eyes — 
Behold your strong sons at your side ! 

They will toil in your Gardens of Morning, 

They will cleanse you of mire and fen ; 
You shall hear the glad laughter of children. 

You shall see the strong arms of young men. 
New hope shall come back to your borders, 

Despair from your threshold be spurned, 
A new day shall rise in your Orient skies — 

The youth of the world has returned. 



82 Sojigs of War ami Peace 



GRASSVALE'S GREAT MAN 



You wouldn't suppose a man like me, a hayseed sort 

er chap, 
Who hain't no special intellec' nor brains beneath 

his cap ; 
You wouldn't suppose I'd hev a son who'd be a 

genyus, hey? 
A man who'd climb the height er fame and then 

set down an' stay. 

VvQ. alius been a plain ol' duff, an' Bill he was my 

son ; 
I s'posed he'd do the kind of work thet I hed alius 

done ; 
Chop cord-wood, dig pertaters, hoe corn, an hoi' the 

plough, 
An' settle down an' chew his cud contented as a 

cow. 

But Bill he warn't that kind er stufif, for, born for 

mighty things. 
He vowed that he'd hoi' up his head with intellec- 

chul kings; 



Grassvale's Great Man 83 

An' now he's gone an' done it; he's a man of great 

renown, 
An' Grassvale now has give the worl' a great man 

from the town. 

He's gone off to the city; everybody knows him 

there, 
An' he stan's there for ten hours a day, right in the 

pubHc square : 
An' he's a big policeman there, an' stan's there in 

the street, 
An' straightens out the tangle w'en the teams an' 

street-cars meet. 

An' everybody's scat of him. He jest hoi's up his 

hand, 
An' the hummin' slam-bang 'lectric car will come 

right to a stand; 
The cars an' teams an' kerridges an' hacks will all 

Stan' still, — 
For ev'ry blessed soul of 'em is scat to death of Bill. 

An' he's the boss of all the street, he stan's there 

in the swim, 
An' no one dares to move until they git permish of him. 
He waves his hand — the teams go on — he lifts it, 

an' they stop — 
To think a humble boy like Bill should climb so near 

the top. 



84 Songs of War ami Peace 

An' this ere is my son, my boy. I never dreamed I'd 

be 
The father of a genyus so tremendous high as he ; 
But in tliis Ian' the poorest hid may make himself 

a name, 
An' a poor humble kid, like Bill, may climb the 

heights er fame. 



M\> Properties 



MV PROPERTIES 



I OWN no park, I keep no horse, 

I can't afford a stable, 
I have no cellar stored with wine, 

I set a frugal table ; 
But still some property is mine, 

Enough to suit my notion : 
I own a mountain toward the west. 

And toward the east an ocean. 
Just this one mountain and one sea 
Are property enough for me. 

A man of moderate circumstance, 

A frugal man, like me, 
With one good mountain has enough, 

Enough with one good sea. 
My mountain stretches high enough, 

Up where the clouds are curled ; 
My ocean puts its arms around 

The bottom of the world. 
I do not fear my sea will dry ; 
My hill will last as long as I. 



86 Songs of War and Peace 

I cannot glibly talk with men, 

No gift of tongues have I ; 
My sea and mountain talk to me, 

Expecting no reply. 
They tell me tales I may not tell, 

But tales of cosmic worth. 
Of conclaves of the early gods 

Who ruled the infant earth ; 
Tales of an unremembered prime 
Told by Eternity to Time. 

And so I'm glad the mountain's mine, 

I'm glad I own the sea, 
That they have special privacies 

Which they impart to me. 
It took eternity to learn 

The tales they know so well. 
And I am glad these tales will take 

Eternity to tell. 
I do not fear my sea will dry; 
My hill will last as long as I. 



Uncle Sam's Spring Cleaning Sy 



UNCLE SAM'S SPRING CLEANING 



"There has been a heap of rubbish dumped about 
the patient seas, 
And all cleaning hitherto has been a sham ; 
It is time for my spring cleaning — and I hope you 
catch my meaning — 
For I'm going to clean 'em out," says Uncle Sam. 
"And I'm going to rinse 'em down, 
And I'm going to soak 'em out. 
And I'm going to sponge 'em off and make 'em clean ; 
And I'll do a handsome job with my scrubbing 
brush and swab. 
And I'll give a different aspect to the scene. 

On the Philippines, a dumpground for the mediaeval 
truck 
And the old miasmal rubbish heaps of Spain, 
I began my vernal cleaning — and I think they 
know my meaning — 
For I turned my hose upon them at full strain. 
And I guess I swabbed 'em down. 
And I guess I rubbed it in. 
And I guess I swashed 'em off and made 'em clean ■, 



88 Songs of War and Peace 

And when I've wiped 'em dry with my army mop, 
says I, 
There'll be a different aspect to the scene. 

And I'll clean off Porto Rico and I'm going to wipe 
it dry, 
And poor filth-infested Cuba must be clean ; 
Four hundred years of lumber that its rubbish holes 
encumber — 
If you wait you'll see it burn like kerosene. 
And 1 guess I'll soap 'em down, 
And I guess I'll scour 'em off, 
And I guess I'll turn my hose on at full strain ; 
And then, when I am through, then old Cuba will 
be new, 
And there won't be any rubbish heaps of Spain. 

She has blotted all the oceans and I'll wipe her off 
the seas, 
And I'll cleanse the cluttered islands of her slime ; 
And this is just the meaning of my vigorous spring 
cleaning — 
Fate's washing-day has come — and it is time 
And I guess when I have soaped 'em. 
And I guess when I have wrung 'em. 
And I guess when I have hung 'em out to dry, 

Not a single blot of Spain on an island shall remain. 
And I think that they'll feci cleaner then, says I." 



The Onlv Man in the World S9 



THE ONLV MAN IN THE WORLD 



I LIVED in a hut on a mountain high, 

On its bowldered summit curled ; 
A snow-storm fell on the mount, and I 

Was the only man in the world. 

The snow and the sky and the stars in their course 

Were all that I could see; 
And I was alone with the Universe, 

And the Universe with me. 

Around my hut the winds were whirled, 

And the stars looked down to see ; 
As I was the only man in the world, 

They told their tales to me. 

The heart of the world to the heart of a man. 
When the world and the man are alone. 

Tells tales that few since the world began 
Have ever heard or known. 

And often I sigh, where the crowds sweep by 

And the human tides are whirled, 
For the hut on the pathless mount where I 

Was the only man in the world. 



90 Songs oj IVar and Peace 



THE RUSE OF JOHN P. JOCK 



Yes, I'm the Shagbark County Bard. An' so you 

come to see 
How I attained my wide renown an' popularity? 
I ain't no flower to blush unseen, an' I don't crawl, 

yer see, 
A poor unreco'nized galoot to all eternity. 

The Shagbark Coiuity Clario/i. wouldn't take a word 

I wrote, 
Its editor's a ignorant, uneducated goat; 
If I'd been a common genius, I'd a languished on 

unknown — 
But I ain't no wilted violet to droop beneath a 

stone. 

So I got a man to write to him, " If he would kindly 

print 
That most transcendent piece of verse known as 

'The Demon's Hint.'" 
So I got a man to send it in — I had it in my frock — 
"I send 'The Demon's Hint,'" he wrote, "by Mr. 

John P. Jock." 



The Ruse of John P. Jock 91 

The editor he printed it, the author's name and all. 

Next week an old subscriber asked for " Lines on 
Early Fall." 

Another fellow sent them in, an' wrote, " I've al- 
ways held 

These lines on ' Fall ' by John P. Jock are surely 
unexcelledu" 

Next week a fellow asked him for " The Mystery of 

the Stars," 
A piece "that had consoled his life through many 

jolts an' jars." 
I got a man to send it in — as reg'lar as a clock — 
Who wrote, " I send these wondrous words by Mr. 

John P. Jock." 

Next day he got a postal card that gave his soul a 

shock, 
" Cut down your editorials and publish more of Jock." 
" Give us more Jock," the words came up from all 

parts of the State, 
"Morepoetrybyjohn P.Jock, a man supremelygreat." 

So I'm the Shagbark County Bard; an' now, my 

friend, you see 
How I attained my wide renown an' popularity. 
I ain't no flower to blush unseen, an' I don't crawl, 

yer see, 
A poor unreco'nized galoot to all eternity. 



92 Songs of IV a r and Peace 



THE FRIENDLY, FLOWING SAVAGE 



The friendly and flowing savage, who is he ? 

Walt Whitman. 

The friendly, flowing savage, this is his proof and 
test: 

He is low as the lowest 
And high as the highest 
And good as the best. 
And he goes forth and learns of men. 

The whole world is his school. 
The bad man and the good man, 
The learned man and the fool. 
The proud man and the meek man, 
The great man and the small ; 
The friendly, flowing savage absorbs and loves them 
all. 

The friendly, flowing savage, he eats the meat of 
life, 

Loves the stress of its battle. 
The rush of its onset, 

The pride of its strife. 



The Friendly, Floiving Savage 93 

His hand is facile to the axe, 

And supple to the pen, 
And the jack-plane and the crowbar — 

He is a man of men. 
The desk man, school man, field man, 

Of coars^ or finer clay. 
The friendly, flowing savage is coarse and fine as 

they. 

The friendly, flowing savage, he has wise ears to 
hear ; 

The sounds of the sidewalk, 
The clink of the kitchen, 
Are sweet to his ear. 
He loves the rhythm of the axe, 
The schooner's flapping sheet ; 
And the babe's cluck and the boy's shout 

And the girl's laugh, all are sweet. 
And the slave's groan and the child's sob, 
And the great cries and the small ; 
The friendly, flowing savage, he hears and feels 
them all. 

The friendly, flowing savage, his heart is wise to 
feel 

The joy of the victors. 
The shame of the conquered. 
Their woe and their weal. 



94 Songs of War and Peace 

■ It vibrates to the playground's shout, 
And the sound of swords that smite 
When the hate of years and the pride of kings 

Come to the clash of fight. 
And the world's shouts and the world's groans, 
Its heart throbs, great and small ; 
The friendly, flowing savage, he knows and feels 
them all. 



The Pageant 95 



THE PAGEANT 



The hand of time is free and unconfined, 

And sows its wide delights ; 
It sows the lavish days among mankind, 

And sows the sumptuous nights. 
It sends the June-tide's pulsing overflow 
Crested with foam of roses all ablow, 
And flaunts the flying banners of the snow 

From all the wintry heights ! 

Bosomed in beauty of the night and day, 

The glories of the year, 
Man gropes amid the grandeur on his way 

To grasp inglorious gear. 
Ah, could he see the splendors round him throng. 
The Pageant of the Vision sweep along, 
Then every soul would be a priest of song 

And every man a seer. 

The pageant of the vision still sweeps on, 

The ages come and flee ; 
The beauty of the long years that have gone 

Forevermore shall be. 



96 Songs of War and Peace 

And age by age the eyes of men shall gaze 
On beauty, clearer with the fleeing days, 
Till every voice shall raise the hymn of praise 
For every eye shall see. 



The Tree Lover 97 



THE TREE LOVER 



Who loves a tree he loves the life that springs in 

star and clod ; 
He loves the love that gilds the clouds and greens 

the April sod ; 
He loves the Wide Beneficence. His soul takes 

hold on God. 

A tree is one of nature's words, a word of peace to 

man, 
A word that tells of central strength from whence 

all things began, 
A word to preach tranquillity to all our restless clan. 

Ah, bare must be the shadeless ways, and bleak the 

path must be, 
Of him who, having open eyes, has never learned to 

see, 
And so has never learned to love the beauty of a 

tree. 

'Tis well for man to mix with men, to drive his 
stubborn quest 



9^ Sotigs of War and Peace 

In harbored cities where the ships come from the 

East and West, 
To fare forth where the tumult roars, and scorn the 

name of rest. 

'Tis well the current of his life should toward the 

deeps be whirled, 
And feel the clash of alien waves along its channel 

swirled. 
And the conflux of the eddies of the mighty-flowing 

world. 

But he is wise who, 'mid what noise his winding 

way may be. 
Still keeps a heart that holds a nook of calm 

serenity, 
And an inviolate virgin soul that still can love a 

tree. 

Who loves a tree he loves the life that springs in 

star and clod. 
He loves the love that gilds the clouds and greens 

the April sod ; 
He loves the Wide Beneficence. His soul takes 

hold on God. 



IVhen Peter Sang 99 



WHEN PETER SANG 



When Peter sang the rafters rang, 
He made the great church reel ; 
His voice it rang a clarion clang, 

Or like a cannon's peal. 
Yes, Peter made the rafters ring, 
And never curbed his tongue ; 
Albeit Peter could not sing, 

Yet Peter always sung. 
Ah, wide did he his wild voice fling 

Promiscuous and free ; 
Despite the fact he could not sing, 
Why, all the more sang he. 
With clamorous clang 
And resonant bang 
His thunders round he flung ; 
He could not sing 
One single thing : 
Yet Peter always sung. 

The choir sang loud, and all the crowd 
Took up the holy strain ; 



loo Songs of War and Peace 

But Peter's bawl rose over all 

Tempestuously plain. 
The organ roared, and madly poured 

Its music flood around, 
But Peter drowned its anthem loud 

In cataracts of sound. 
The people hushed, the choir grew still, 

Still grew the organ's tone. 
Then Peter's voice rose loud and shrill, 
For Peter sang alone. 
His clamorous shout 
Had drowned them out, 
And silenced every tongue ; 
He could not sing 
One single thing: 
Yet Peter always sung. 



When Peter died the people cried, 

For Peter he was good, 
Although his voice produced a noise 

Not easily withstood. 
Though many cried when Peter died 

And gained his golden lyre, 
They nursed a heartfelt sympathy 

For heaven's augmented choir. 
They knew where'er his soul might be 

Loud would his accents ring. 



When Peter Sang loi 

He'd sing through all eternity 
The songs he could not sing. 

The heavenly choir 

He'd make perspire 
And heavenly arches ring ; 

Though he can't sing 

One single thing, 
For evermore he'll sing. 



I02 Songs of War and Peace 



A THINKER ON THINKERS 



Our good ol' Elder Hombleton he said he thought 

I ought 
To git acquainted with the lords an' emperors of 

thought ; 
He said I had sich nateral capacities of mind 
That I ought to git familiar with the thinkers of 

mankind. 
An' so he fetched me Shakespeare's plays, an' Mil- 
ton's poems, too. 
An' ol' George Eliot's novels next for me to waller 

through. 
An' so I wallered through 'em all, read through the 

whole long shelf : 
An' all the more I read their stuff the more I loved 

myself. 

W'y, now, jest look at Shakespeare : poof ! that 

foolish people praise. 
He made a terrible mistake to go to writin' plays, 
The man couldn't think ; he rambles on and jumps 

from this to that. 
An' I dunno, an' he dunno, jest w'at he's drivin' at. 



A Thinker on Thinkers 103 

I've thought more thoughts, out here to work ; I've 

thought more in one day, 
More genyuine thoughts than he could stick in one 

whole ramblin' play. 
There might be good plays written, sir ; plays 

number one an' prime — 
But I must carry on my farm, an' I hain't got the time. 

Now there's John Milton's poetry that makes sich 

hullaballoo, 
'Tain't sense, 'tain't rhyme, 'tain't argiment, an' I 

don't b'lieve it's true. 
They call him a great thinker, hey ? His thoughts 

are great an' high ? 
If he's a thinker. Lord alive ! Good Gracious ! 

w'at am I ? 
He's got some gift for words, I know ; but he can't 

string 'em. See 1 
Can't string 'em so they'll make a thought that 

holds up an idee. 
There might be poetry written, sir, chockfuU of 

thought sublime. 
But I must carry on my farm, an' I hain't got the time. 

Now, there's George Eliot's novels, wall, I never 

seen the man. 
An' I wouldn't hurt his feelin's, but the stuff he 

writ, I swan ! 



I04 Songs of War and Peace 

He tries to tell us stories, but he hain't got none to 

tell; 
W'y, I could tell 'em twice as quick, an' forty times 

as well. 
But I've jest wallered through 'em all, read through 

the whole long shelf, 
An' all the more I've read the stuff the more I've 

loved myself. 
But there might be novels written that would be 

first-class and prime ; 
But I mus' carry on my farm, an' I hain't got the 

time. 



The Song of the Hoe 105 



THE SONG OF THE HOE 



Hear ye the song of the hoe, 

And hear ye without scorn; 
The ring of my blade on the hill or the glade 

Is music to the corn. 
And the old heart of the hill, 
It pulses with the thrill, 

And sends its sap aflow; 
And it flows into the corn, 
And a gladder life is born 

When it hears the song of the hoe. 

Hear ye the song of the hoe. 

And what is the song I sing? 
'Tis a sweeter rune if your ear is a-tune 

Than the harper's song to the king; 
'Tis a song of joy, not of tears. 

How the earth for a million years 

Will bud and blossom and grow, 
And still be glad and young 
Whenever my song is sung. 

When it hears the song of the hoe. 



io6 Songs of War and Peace 

Hear ye the song of the hoe. 

I sing of the things I hear; 
The thoughts down deep in the old earth's 
keep, 

Are whispered in my ear. 
And the corn can understand, 
And it tells the smiling land 

(Far doth the message go), 
The thoughts that have their birth 
From the old 3'oung heart of the earth, 

That are sung in the song of the hoe. 

Hear ye the song of the hoe. 

'Tis an honest song and true, 
And good for men again and again. 

And good for you and you. 
It sings of the deep-down things. 
Of the world's first lore it sings. 

The world-heart's overflow; 
And it tells your sallow brood 
The heart of the world is good — 

Then hear ye the song of the hoe. 

Hear ye the song of the hoe 

That floats with the smell of the soil. 

That tells of the wealth of the old earth's 
health, 
Of the metre and music of toil. 



The Song of the Hoe 107 

And this is the core of its song, 
That the earth is made for the strong, 

Nor yields up its wealth to the slow; 
And that labor is love and delight 
To those who are fain for the fight — 

Then hear ye the song of the hoe. 



io8 Songs of War ami Peace 



TOM PH ELAN'S HAUNTED BARN 



See that ol' barn jest over there that's so tipped-up 

an' canted, 
That kinder tumble-down affair? — Wall, that ol' 

barn is han'ted. 
That used to be Tom Phelan's barn, who died in 

eight)'-seven, 
Who tried his best for sixty years to fit himself for 

heaven. 

Tom said all kinds er piety was nothin' but pre- 
tences 

Onless yer mortified yer pride an' kep' down yer 
expenses ; 

The way, he said, to git to heaven was not by livin' 
gayly — 

But you mus' clothe yer back in rags an' scrimp yer 
stomach daily. 

He said that he could dress himself three year for 

twenty dollars. 
By jest renouncin' stockin's, shoes, an' under 

clo'es an' collars, 



Tom Phehvi's Haunted Barn 109 

An' wearin' meal-bag pantaloons — for they wore 

jest like iron — 
Were jest as good as any dood's, an' easier to try 

on. 

So in one corner of his barn he rigged a place to 

stay there, 
An' in col' winter nights he slep' all covered up 

with hay there ; 
An' if his feet got very col' a-sleepin' on his mow 

there, 
W'y he'd crawl out a little while an' warm 'em on 

his cow there. 

He had an ol' tin-b'iler stove he uster cook his 

meal on, 
An' one pertater twice a day (he et it with the peel 

on); 
He had an apple once a week, an' once when very 

sinful 
He baked a pan of Johnnycake an' et a half a 

tinful. 

An' jest to save his candle-light he went to bed at 

seven — 
An' one night he awoke surprized an' found himself 

in heaven. 



no Songs of War and Peace 

'He'd changed his barn an' his ol' cow, tied to her 

rattlin' stanchion, 
For a gran' home in Paradise an' a celestial man- 
sion. 

But up there in his robes of white, amid celestial 

toons there, 
He mourned his bedtick overcoat an' meal-bag 

pantaloons there; 
The furnishings were far too rich, the draperies too 

extensive; 
All the upholstery an' sich he thought was too 

expensive. 

An' all tlie time he walked the streets he skurce 

could keep from ravin' 
About the great extravagance of all that golden 

pavin'. 
The jasper an' the topaz walls he thought too great 

expense there — 
'Twould serve the purpose jest as well — a good 

barbed-wire fence there. 

One day he went to Gabriel in very great consarn 

there. 
To try to get permission for to build a wooden barn 

there ; 



Tom Phelan's Haunted Barn n i 

When Gabriel refused p'int-blank, his angry soul 

did steer ag'in 
Back to this tumble-down ol' barn an' went to livin' 

here ag'in. 

An' here at midnight ev'ry night, the ghost of ol' 

Tom Phelan 
Gits out its ol' tin-b'iler stove to cook its ghostly 

meal on; 
An' people say who hear his sighs an' awful sobs 

an' moanin': 
''For Gabriel's extravagance Tom Phelan's ghost is 

groanin'." 



1 1 2 Songs of IVar ami Peace 



AN ART CRITIC 



He's smart, our boarder's smart, they say. 

Say he's ahiiighty smart. 
An' what's he do r Wall, what d'ye think? 

A lecturer on art ! 
A lecturer on art ! Good Lord ! 

An' what the deuce is art? 
A mess of good-for-nothin' gush — 

But our girls think he's smart. 
"What's art? " I says to him one day, 

" 'Taint bread, nor cheese, nor meat; 
'Taint pie, nor pudd'n', nor corn'-beef, 

Nor nothin' fit to eat." 
An' he caved in an' owned right up 

'Twarn't nothin' fit to eat. 

My girls take everything he says 

Without a gasp or gulp, 
'Bout skulpin' marble images, 

An' fools who love to skulp. 
I want no skulpin's in my house, 

No images for me. 



An Art Critic 113 

"You can't eat images," I says, 

"Then what is their idee? " 
"They express the ideel sense," says he. 

" But they aint corn, nor wheat, 
Nor flapjacks, succotash, nor pork, 

Nor nothin' fit to eat." 
I squelched him, an' he owned right up 

That they warn't fit to eat. 

He showed a picture t'other day 

That made a monstrous hit, 
A picture of a durned ol' cow 

They said was exquisite. 
" How much milk does your picture give ? " 

Says I to him one day; 
An' you'd ought to seen him wiggle. 

For he didn' know what to say. 
" My cows give milk an' make good steak 

That's mighty hard to beat; 
But that ar painted cow of yourn. 

Is she good steak to eat? " 
He hemmed an' hawed an' squirmed, and 
owned 

That she warn't fit to eat. 

Git out with art! Stone images 
An' picture filagree! 



1 1 4 Songs of War and Peace 

f 

O vittles ! vittles is the stuff 

That suits the likes of me. 
Humph! art or vittles? What's your choice? 

Stone images or pie? 
Pictures of cows or cows themselves ? — 

" The cows themselves ! " say I. 
"Yes, Turner's pictures," said the fool, 

*' Are very hard to beat." 
"Are they best baked or biled? " said I, 

"An' are they fit to eat? " 
An' then the fool he owned right up 

That they warn't fit to eat. 



The Song of Dewey 's Gnus 1 1 5 



THE SONG OF DEIVEV'S GUJVS 



What is this thunder-music from the other side of 

the world, 
That pulses through the severing seas and round 

the planet runs? 
'Tis the death-song of old Spain floating from the 

Asian main; 
There's a tale of crumbling empire in the song of 

Dewey's guns ! 

The hand that held the sceptre once of all the great 

world seas, 
And paved its march with dead men's bones 'neath 

all the circling suns, 
Grew faint with deadly fear when that thunder song 

drew near, 
For the dirge of Spain was sounded by the song of 

Dewey's guns ! 

There is music in a cannon yet for all the Sons of 

Peace — 
Yea, the porthole's belching anthem is soft music 

to her sons 



ii6 Songs of War and Peace 

When the iron thunder-song sings the death of 

ancient wrong — 
And a dying wrong was chanted by the song of 

Dewey's guns. 



The Infidel n/ 



THE INFIDEL 



Who is the infidel? 'Tis he 

Who deems man's thought should not be free, 

Who'd veil truth's faintest ray of light 

From breaking on the human sight; 

'Tis he who purposes to bind 

The slightest fetter on the mind, 

Who fears lest wreck and wrong be wrought 

To leave man loose with his own thought; 

Who, in the clash of brain with brain, 

Is fearful lest the truth be slain, 

That wrong may win and right may flee — 

This is the infidel. 'Tis he. 

Who is the infidel? 'Tis he 

Who puts a bound on what may be ; 

Who fears time's upward slope shall end 

On some far summit — and descend; 

Who trembles lest the long-borne light, 

Far-seen, shall lose itself in night; 

Who doubts that life shall rise from death 

When the old order perisheth; 

That all God's spaces may be cross't 

And not a single soul be lost — 



1 1 8 Songs of War and Peace 

Who doubts all this, who'er he be, 
This is the infidel. 'Tis he. 

Who is the infidel? 'Tis he 
Who from his soul's own light would flee; 
Who drowns with creeds of noise and din 
The still small voice that speaks within; 
'Tis he whose jangled soul has leaned 
To that bad lesson of the fiend. 
That worlds roll on in lawless dance, 
Nowhither through the gulfs of chance; 
And that some feet may never press 
A pathway through the wilderness 
From midnight to the morn-to-be — 
This is the infidel. 'Tis he. 

Who is the infidel.'' 'Tis he 
Who sees no beauty in a tree; 
For whom no world-deep music hides 
In the wide anthem of the tides; 
For whom no glad bird-carol thrills 
From off the million-throated hills; 
Who sees no order in the high 
Procession of the star-sown sky; 
Who never feels his heart beguiled 
By the glad prattle of a child; 
Who has no dreams of things to be — 
This is the infidel. 'Tis he. 



Listen to Yourself 1 1 9 



LISTEN TO YOURSELF 



Ah, teacher, let me hear you teach ; 

You have brave words from olden seers, 
The lore of those long-bearded men 

Of all the far-off years ; 
The gray old thoughts of gray old men 

Beneath the Asian stars, 
Brought safe by fate through clashing years 

Of unremembered wars. 
And you have read the huddled tomes 

Of many an alcoved shelf ; 
But have you stood beneath the stars 

And listened to yourself ? 

Ah, teacher, let me hear you teach ; 

You at old sages' feet have sat; 
Know you the man within your coat, 

The man beneath your hat ? 
You know the thoughts that shaped the world. 

From far-off centuries blown ; 
What says the man who talks with thee 

When thou art all alone ? 



I20 Songs of War and Peace 

Why should I listen to a man 

Who listens at the alcoved shelf ? 

Man, let me hear a living man 
Who listens to himself. 



The Classics 121 



THE CLASSICS 



Let me always read the classics. 

There are bardlings of a day, 
Fames from twilight unto twilight ; 

But the classics ever stay. 
And the classics are the voices 

Of the mountain and the glen 
And the multitudinous ocean 

And the city filled with men, — 
Voices of a deeper meaning 

Than all drippings of the pen. 

Yes, the mountains are a classic. 

And an older word they speak 
Than the classics of the Hebrew 

Or the Hindoo or the Greek. 
Dumb are they, like all the classics, 

Till the chosen one draws near, 
Who can catch their inner voices 

With the ear behind the ear ; 
And their words are high and mystic, 

But the chosen one can hear. 



122 Songs of War and Peace 

And the ocean is a classic. 

Where's the scribe shall read its word, 
Word grown old before the Attic 

Or Ionian bards were heard, 
Word once whispered unto Homer, 

Sown within his fruitful heart, — 
And he caught a broken message, 

But be only heard a part. 
Listen, thou ; forget the babblings 

And the pedantries of art. 

And the city is a classic, — 

Aye, the city filled with men ; 
Here the comic, epic, tragic. 

Beyond painting of the pen. 
And who rightly reads the classic 

Of the city, million-trod, 
Ranges farther than the sky-line. 

Burrows deeper than the sod. 
And his soul beholds the secrets 

Of the mysteries of God. 

Give to me to read these classics : — 
Life is short from youth to age ; 

But its fleetness is not wasted 
If I master but a page. 



The Twins 123 



T//E TWINS 



Two babes were born. The fields of corn, 
Laved in the lushness of the morn, 
And murmurous stretches of tall grain. 
Waved round the birthplace of the twain. 
And sentinel hills around the glen 
Kept guard about the twin-born men, — 
Twin-born beside a country lane. 
Their sundered lots and lives made plain 
The twinless nature of the twain. 

Above the gleams of mountain streams 
For one there loomed the Wraith of Dreams, 
And ever motioned with her hand 
To some far height in some far land, 
To some far land of high emprise 
Where unknown seas meet unknown skies. — 
And forth he fared and travelled far 
To lands beneath the Morning Star, 
And where the Sunset Islands are. 

" Oh, far away doth Beauty stray 
Beside the distant founts of day." 



124 Songs of War and Peace 

He followed till these founts were found, 
And saw her footprint on the ground, 
Where she had leaped to take her flight 
On to the distant baths of night. 
But at the baths of night afar 
Her robe, that sparkles like the spar, 
Vanished behind a lonely star. 

Through shadows gray he groped his way. 
Through dim old lands of yesterday. 
And where, lapped in a shipless sea. 
The empires of to-morrow be. 
And far o'er misty mounts and meads 
He chased the Vision that Recedes. 

He chased through morning's rosy light 
And through the falling mists of night 
The white Wraith of the Backward Flight. 

Borne far along from hills of song 
He heard dim, murmurous anthems throng ; 
When through the desert he had come 
He found the Hills of Song were dumb ; 
But from their skyey summits he 
Saw through far mist the Halcyon Sea. 
When near the sea he heard the roar 
Of angry breakers evermore — 
And shattered wrecks were on the shore. 



The Twins 125 

O'er sea and sand through every land 
This Pilgrim of the Reaching Hand, 
This Traveller of the Forward Gaze, 
Fared for a weary length of days. 
His Phantom beckoned and was gone, 
The Phantom-chaser followed on. — 
His grave is in a lonely land, 
By rainless skies forever scanned, 
And vultures scream above the sand. 



The twin-born child lived in his wild 

And native mountains reconciled, 

And there within his valley curled 

Fed on the largess of the world ; 

And there, among his lowly peers, 

He drank the fulness of the years. 

With Nature's thought the hills were thrilled. 
Her thought was through the skies distilled — 
His soul was open, and was filled. 

The brook that flees through lowland leas 
Knows all the secrets of the seas; 
And from the brook beside his door 
He gathered every ocean's lore. 
And there were galleons of cloud 
From seas no ship had ever ploughed, 



126 Songs of War and Peace 

Aerial merchantmen that swim 
From Fancy's farthest islands dim, 
To bring their freight of dreams to him. 



And there were trees where every breeze 

Played its Eolian melodies; 

And Orient voices in the wind, 

Sang of the morning of mankind; 

And every morn the unsullied dew 

Proved the world's morning still was new. 
The orchard songster's hymn of praise 
Showed him how near were Eden's lays, 
How far away the evil days. 

Through forests lone and overblown 
Of night winds came a deeper tone; 
There did the wind's loud anthems roll 
Cathedral thoughts that fill the soul, 
Great themes, from no vain babblings spun, 
That weave man's thought and God's as one. 
He heard these anthems in the air 
That brought him thoughts he might not 

share, 
Far thoughts — for every thought was prayer. 



So resting here without a fear, 
The Vision that Recedes drew near. 




^ The Twins 127 

/■■ 

Each day approached with friendlier grace 

The smiling calmness of her face; 

Each day he saw with new surprise 

The nearing beauty of her eyes. 
He sleeps beneath a mossy mound 
That strawberry-tendrils twine around, 
And apple-blossoms strew the ground. 



/ 



128 Songs of War and Peace 



THE WARMING OF THE. HANDS 



I warmed both hands before the fire of life. 

Walter Savage Landor. 

" 'Tis cold," the idle cynic cries, 

" The winds are bleak, the way is bare, 
No warmth is in the wintry skies. 

The drifts are everywhere; 
And we are stung with shafts of sleet, 

And smitten by the breath of frost ; 
On life's cold beaches tempest-beat 

The curdled seas are tossed." 
Ah, good man, leave the icy sands, 

The wintry shore and sea at strife ; 
Stretch forth your palms, and warm both hands 

Before the fire of life. 

Good man, 'tis not the wintry skies, 
'Tis not the frozen mountains old ; 

Within, within, your torpor lies, 
Your heart within is cold. 

Dulled by the blighting fogs that roll 
Around the lowland fens of doubt, 



The Warming of the Hands 129 

Upon the hearthstone of your soul 

The fires have all gone out. 
Let once again the blackened brands 

Feel the warm flames' aspiring strife — 
Stretch forth your arms, and warm both hands 

Before the fire of life. 

Upon the hearthstone of the soul 

Still let the genial flame burn clear — 
Without the surly tempests roll 

And blast the ruined year ; 
Without the storms roar far and wide, 

The ruffian winds are fierce and strong — 
Around the heart's warm ingleside 

Is heard the voice of song. 
The warmth within the soul withstands 

The outward winter's angry strife ; 
Heap up the blaze, and warm both hands 

Before the fire of life. 

You cynic of the drifted snow. 

The blasted fields, the barren sand. 
Ah, there are vales where zephyrs blow 

Their fragrance round the land ; 
Where the deep rose's swelling breast 

Drinks beauty from the summer air, 
And where the laughing meads are dressed 

In robes of maiden-hair. 



130 Songs of War and Peace 

And life is sweet in those glad lands, 
The air with summer scents is rife ; 

Go taste its warmth, and warm both hands 
Before the fire of life. 

The snow is in your wintry sense. 

The ice is in your frozen heart ; 
Then drive December's torpor hence, 

And see the mayflowers start. 
Behold ! The pageant of the spring 

Sweeps down the music-haunted glen, 
And songs of praise the woodlands sing, 

And all hearts cry, "Amen." 
It is the heart's own ingle brands 

Make summer peace of winter's strife ; 
Stretch forth your palms, and warm both hands 

Before the fire of life. 



The Pedigree of the Dollars 131 



THE PEDIGREE OF THE DOLLARS 



Ten good one-dollar bills one day 
Within a good man's wallet lay. 

And he resolved (so good was he) 
To trace each dollar's pedigree; 

And not to spend a single bill 
That bore a stain of wrong or ill. 

So like a sleuth he followed back 
Each dollar bill upon its track. 

II 

Bill Number One he found was made 
In a dishonest jockey trade; 

And Two a grocer made of late 
By overcharge and underweight ; 

And Three was made through watered milk, 
And Four by selling damaged silk; 



132 Songs of IVar and Peace 

And Number Five a sweater made 
Through starving women underpaid; 

And Six was made in dens of shame, 
And Seven in a gambling game; 

And Number Eight he found to be 
The price of wretched perjury ; 

And Nine was from a robber's clan, 
Ten stolen from a murdered man 



III 

Our good man would not spend again 
This money dark with many a stain, 

And so he yielded up his breath, 
And with his money starved to death. 

Ten good one-dollar bills that day 
Within that dead man's wallet lay. 

They'd never found a man, ah me ! 
Who'd used them half as ill as he. 



On the Door-Knob I33 



ON THE DOOR-KNOB 



Death's hand is like a brother's hand when stretched 

toward one that's old, 
When resting on the white thin locks, the bowed and 

burdened back ; 
But to warm youth his heavy hand is very, very 

cold : — 
The white crape on the door-knob is darker than the 

black. 

Ah, many a tired world-dimmed eye has seen Death's 

face and smiled, 
And followed toward his beckoning hand and cared 

not to turn back ; 
But why should this stern stranger guest approach 

the little child ? — 
The white crape on the door-knob is darker than 

the black. 

The black crape on the door-knob makes grave the 

careless eye, 
And gives the dullest heart a sense of life's eternal 

lack, 



134 Songs of War and Peace 

The black crape on the door-knob awes every passer- 

by:- 
But the white crape on the door-knob is darker than 

the black. 



An Inspector I35 



AN INSPECTOR 



For many years I was self-appointed inspector of snow-storms and 
rain-storms, and did my duty faithfully. 

Thoreau. 

I'm an inspector on my rounds 

For what I can detect ; 
Forever, tireless, night and day, 

Inspectors should inspect. 
A spy, a spotter keen, am I, 

Whose business 'tis to pry 
Into the secrets of the earth, 

The ocean, and the sky. 
I'm out on my detective trail, 

And work the whole year through, 
And in my business hitherto 

I've learned a thing or two. 

Ah, there are mighty goings-on 
Where mighty secrets lurk ; 

My business 'tis to hide myself, 
And watch the whole thing work. 

A few revealments from the sea, 
A few, too, from the sky, 



1 36 Songs of IFar and Peace 

And many secrets from the stars 

And from the winds have I. 
And there are whisperings from the fields, 

And tattlings from the mere ; 
And 'tis my trick to hide myself, 

Keep still, and overhear. 

And, do you know, a little flower 

Has secrets to rehearse. 
And tales of wonder from the soul 

Of the great universe ? 
And, if you once could understand 

The whisperings of the grass. 
And muffled murmurs of the flags 

That grow in the morass. 
You'd hear the secret of the soul 

That lives in earth and star, 
And learn its inner mystery, 

And know things as they are. 

And, could a man go in the woods 

And overhear the trees, 
And hide himself within the cliffs 

And listen to the seas, 
And could authentically translate 

The language of the brook, 
He'd learn some thoughts not hitherto 

Put down in any book. 



An Inspector I37 

Could he translate the mountain winds, 

Their voices manifold, 
He'd get some thoughts, perchance, too great 

For any book to hold. 

So, an inspector of the wmds, 

Detective of the sky, 
Investigator of the brooks 

And hills and woods, am I. 
I have no shame to spy about 

And listen far and near, 
For Nature has no secret thought 

That's bad for me to hear. 
I seek the secret of the soul 

That lives in earth and star, 
To learn its inner mystery, 

And know things as they are. 



138 Songs of War and Peace 



THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD MAN 



There was a man who understood music, 

And right at the very next door 
There was a man who understood science — 

And neither knew anything more. 
And next to him was a metaphysician 

Of deep psychological lore, 
And next to him was a great theologian — 

And neither knew anything more. 
And all around these was a business crew. 
Who attended to business — and that's all they 
knew. 

And it happened the man who understood music 

Was the dreariest kind of bore — 
A bore to the man who understood science, 

Who lived at the very next door. 
And they both were bores to the metaphysician, 

And both were incurably dreary ; 
And all of the three made the great theologian 

Most unintermittently weary. 
And the men all around them, the business crew, 
With none of the four had the first thing to do. 



The Man who Understood Man i39 

For the musical man told the scientist man 

All the musical lore that he knew ; 
And the scientist man did the musical man 

With his scientist volleys pursue. 
And every day did the great theologian 

The metaphysician assail, 
That he might disembogue in his palpitant ear 

His long metaphysical tale. 
For every one reached for the other one's ear — 
All wanted to talk and none wanted to hear. 



And often it happened the metaphysician 

To the business people would rant 
Of Spencer, Spinoza, Heraclitus, Plato, 

Protagoras, Schelling, and Kant. 
And the business men, while the metaphysician 

Through his logical labyrinth glides. 
Are thinking of dry goods and leather and lumber 

And hardware and horses and hides. 
Each overstretched intellect uttered his word — 
And every one lectured and nobody heard. 

But there was a man who understood man, sir, 

And he never knew anything more. 
They all poured their wisdom in showers upon 
him — 

He begged they'd continue to pour. 



140 Sotigs of War and Peace 

" Oh, tell me of music, and tell me of science. 

And deep metaphysical lore." 
And he'd sit and he'd listen in wondering silence, 

And hungrily ask them for more. 
And they made him the leader of all their clan — 
This wise ignoramus who understood man. 

This wise ignoramus who understood man, sir. 

Seemed raptured, astounded, and dazed ; 
At the width and the wealth of their wise erudition 

He'd sit in deep wonder amazed ! 
And he gulped all the flood of their deep-flowing 
knowledge 

In hungry voracity down ; 
So he came to the town where these other men lived, 

And became the first man of the town. 
And they thought him the deepest of all their clan — 
This wise ignoramus who understood man. 



A Tbomht 141 



A THOUGHT 



The world was bleak and empty and cold, 
And wretched and hopeless and very old ; 
God gave me a Thought — a new world grew - 
The Thought re-created the world anew. 



142 Songs of War and Peace 



1898 AND 1562 



The evening and the morning have joined in fight 
at last. 
Around the Western islands the Old shall fight the 
New; 
Columbia and Hispania, the Present and the Past, 
And Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-eight fights 
Fifteen Sixty-two. 

The Nation of the Forward Look that sees the 
heights ahead 
Fights with the Backward Glancing Realm that 
sees the tombs behind. 
And who shall doubt the conflict of the Quick and 
of the Dead, 
Of the Leaders with the Laggards of Mankind ? 

To-day joins fight with Yesterday ; the mediaeval 
years 
Are grappling with the Modern, and the Old as- 
sails the New. 



i8g8 and 1^62 143 

But who, who fears the issue ? Where's the trem- 
bling soul that fears 
When Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-eight fights 
Fifteen Sixty-two ? 



i44 Songs of War and Peace 



A CONTRAST 



The prairies flaunt with grain on every hand ; 
The cornfields' emerald banners proudly flare 
Like flags of triumph on the summer air ; 

The orchards in their fruited fulness stand ; 

Each breeze with harvest promises is bland ; 
The lushness of a million meadows fair 
Exhales its odorous blessing everywhere, 

And careless plenty lolls through all the land. 

But strong men starve, and dying infants draw 
From breasts of dying mothers, whose wan looks. 
Pain-disciplined, meet death's without a fear, — 
To hunger's eye death loses all his awe. 

And here, ye deep-browed writers of long books, 
Look ye ! there's stuff for many a folio here. 



The Blossoming of Igdrasil i45 



THE BLOSSOMING OF IGDRASIL 



Why ended not the world when Shakespeare died ? 

When the old World -Tree's topmost bloom uprears 

And shows the perfect flower that hath no peers, 
Slow fate's consummate bloom and darling pride, 
Why longer should its flowerless trunk abide ? 

Why lengthen out, sport of the high gods' jeers, 

The anti-climax of its after years 
In bloomless barrenness unjustified ? 

Ah, me, the World-Tree's root strikes very deep 
Down to the midmost core of central strength, 
And draws its life-sap through long winding 
ways : "^ 
New life some day shall through its branches creep, 
And on its topmost bough shall bloom at length 
Another Shakespeare — after many days. 



14^ Songs of War and Peace 



THE VOICES OF THE TIDES 



" I HEAR the Voices when the tide comes in," 
Said the old sailor standing on the shore. 
On this bleak coast, above this wintry roar, 
I hear the winds of summer and the din 
Of bird-songs in the palm-trees. I have been 
Among the Isles of Beauty ; and once more 
The summer seas on Eden headlands pour — 
I hear the Voices when the tide comes in. 

The tide of time flows in upon the world, 

And breaks on Northern headlands white with 
snow, 
And some there be who hear discordant din ; 
But close I listen where its waves are hurled. 
And I hear music from far islands blow — 
I hear the Voices when the tides come in. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



012 072 432 O^W 




